


Transversal, crossing over the backs of legends

by Kasan_Soulblade



Category: Pocket Monsters SPECIAL | Pokemon Adventures
Genre: AU, De-aging, Gen, Gio and Silver try to fight fate, Gore, Pokemon Omega and Alpha game!verse, Pokemon special AU, Pokemon ultra sun/moon game!verse, aka kill or be killed, and lose, canondivergence, chapter six is story/game notes, effected chapters are marked with warnings, evil legendary, familial focus, game verse with Manga transplants, paralell worlds/plots, so pokemon hunt each other in the wild, team Rocket are poachers, thus expect illegal hunting starting chapter 7
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-11
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:20:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 30,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24133471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kasan_Soulblade/pseuds/Kasan_Soulblade
Summary: NEWEST UPDATE NEW CHAPTER 3The last thing he remembers is the vents and running, and Green wanting to go home. The Mask left them alone long enough, it seemed safe, so they split and Sneasel'd been on watch so he'd gone to sleep, his warmth keeping her up and uncomfortable enough to be vicious.Then he'd opened his eyes in a van, and there'd been moving, and this woman wasn't his Mother (he doesn't have one) and then he'd found the phone.And it'd been ringing, so he picked it up to a Moon who wasn't a Moon, who was older then him, and talked funny, and wasn't the Mask, and knew a little but not too much.  He was a few days ahead, Silver a few days behind, and a world divided them because the people on Silver's side had never heard of Alola.  Still they both knew of each other's regions, Silver less so than Moon but Moon was old so that made sense.So both started pokemon journeys and the rules made little sense, not-Moon insisted on talking though Silver couldn't grasp why he cared.  No one cared. Mask had made him do evil so often to make 'specially sure that no one would care ever again.
Kudos: 9





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> To my readers,
> 
> So this is a transfer project. My old computer died, and though tentatively fixable it can't go online because it tries to auto update then fries again. It's old, to put it mildly. So since I recalled this story from memory I tossed up it's intro chapter so I wouldn't lose it and I suspect a number of odd projects are going to go up in the next few days as I try to salvage what I can from memory and old hardware while tech support takes a crack at my dino of a box and I juggle trying to exercise creativity amongst being stupid busy and life..
> 
> Hopefully you enjoy this teaser trailer of a new fic that I'd planned to post after "2 paths" was done, I'll be back with more chapters as time permits.
> 
> Kasan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDITED 12/26/2020
> 
> I'm doing a massive rehaul of this story after some kind souls reached out an let me know clarity was an issue. So here's the revamped version.
> 
> Their issues they posted:
> 
> Hard time distinguishing time frame for the fic... Where did silver start, when did he leave the truck, ect?
> 
> Addressed, added to the beginning to show the trip, and show transition from the moving truck into the house.
> 
> Who is blue/green?
> 
> clarified, addressed earlier than in the original draft so she's less than a one time name drop.
> 
> Who is the narrator?
> 
> Dropped the mystery build up a bit, answered it much earlier than the original.
> 
> Eased off on flashbacks, made things more chronological, built on the theft scene and dropped the map scene.

As she babbles of nonsensical things, like _father, at his gym_ , and the _big move_ , and he is detached yet horridly present through her… monologue. He’s a ghost all attendant, soundlessly crossing the yard behind her at a slow limp. Never mind her “sweet hearts” and “dears” she doesn’t see his limp, or his slowness, so he pays her prattle similar attention she pays him. 

Which is none.

His namesake eyes are wide and wild as he takes in a world he doesn’t recall. Because how it’d been last night is not how it was this morning. Reality had taken a sharp turn between Sneasel settling into to snuggle his pesky body heat away and the speed bump that’d woken him up and gave him his first hinting that he wasn’t in… well _any_ forest anymore… much less Mt. Morter’s towering pines.

The view of the road had been more blur than anything useful. Lowness and green, snatches of sky up high, the whole was pretty but pointless. He’d hared from one end of the metal box he’d woken up in, to the other. First he wanted out. Rapping against the metal doors with his fist, but a rattling turn that knocked him on his butt and the growl of a motor fighting over some tricky terrain tipped him off to what he should have realized ages ago. His confinement was attached to a car. That stopped him trying to grab at the handle and get out, since out meant unsafe, and unsafe was stupid..

So for a little he sat and sulked.

Some small loose box that’d popped free of lackluster knots kept poking him. He shoved it, it slid back. He kicked it, his foot hurt, another turn got it poking him again. After a huff and standing and pushing the stupid small “ _lry box_ ” back and far as he could he flopped to the metal floor, glad it wasn’t cold, curious that it wasn’t warm, and settled his coat under him just in case it _got_ cold.

Because cold metal was the worst.

He must have nodded a little, because when he jolted awake the road felt smoother than before. It’d been smooth awhile perhaps, because the loose box hadn’t slid up to him like a growlithe pup to get kicked again. So he stood, trying to ignore the pins and needles of laying on too little, too long. He stood until standing got boring. A look about let him see all the angles and lines of bound furniture and tables and boxes, and more to make the boredom go away than anything else he go to climbing. At first it was to better look out, but the view was the same.

And after a while that got boring too.

He’d half a mind to try to work at the knots, wiggle some of the bigger bits loose so when the door opened he’d be ready, with things to throw and hide behind. Before he could get beyond thinking of what to do his prison on wheels had stopped. Once it was still he heard an engine die, a click, then steps crackled across a pebbly earth. The sound, starting close, came closer, all to end at the door he had wanted to open. One soft squeak and twist of the handle from the outside, and the world was revealed.

And _she’d_ been there.

A tall, pretty, brown haired woman in a long, light blue dress Green’d kill for. Save this dress was too long and it was too pale. The bloodstains would be a nightmare to get out, they’d have to cut it shorter and pin it up and do all sorts of things to make it fit. Still it’d look good on Green. Regardless of how the lady looked, she sounded crazy. Calling him endearments he’d heard other women call out to other children.

Like this was normal. Like he was normal to her. 

It was baffling to say the least. And his waiting, for clarification, orders, or even an introduction, inspired nothing. There was no shock, no realization that he wasn’t supposed to be there.

Clearly this lady just shoved small kids into cars and drove off with them among boxes and bound up furniture. It was her thing. Like how Mask just shoved kids at giant birds and had them whisked away. Since it sounded nothing like the “family” stuff that Green would go on and on about Silver waited some more, because, why not?

After a long span of clucking at him to “come along”, because he wasn’t coming, she lost benign bemusement. And though smiling her blue eyes thinned a bit in obvious irritation. 

“If you want to stay in the moving truck, fine, mind the movers.”

She gave up then, walked away muttering nonsense about boys being boys and he’d…

Well she’d suggested, _not ordered_ , so he didn’t have to. Right? 

While he waffled on if it _was right_ he shrugged on his coat. Both sleeves were unbuttoned, so it made him look a bit like a haunter mired in morbid ribbon stand since the sleeves, like the coat, were black and sleek. He buttoned up the sleeves, humming the little tune Green’d taught him the first time she’d spotted him buttoning his own coat all wrong. It was something silly, sing-songed, but that’d made sense, since it _was_ a song.

_Poppy little diglet out of the hole,_

_Line them up one by one._

_Guild them home, one, two, three,_

_twist and slid them till they’re snug as a bug,_

_Then let go_ ….

 _Then you’re free_.

He always finished it last button when it was done. Even when he took the extra steps of minding the shredded cloth wound about his left arm. Maybe it was skipping a few buttons about his bound wrist that did it.

The crackle of feet, assurance of someone approaching, made him look up. Maybe the pretty lady’d come around. Maybe she’d make some sense now. About where he was, and where he was supposed to go when he got out? That’d be nice.

When the first, smooth snouted creature bumbled up, blocking the exit, well both ‘mon and boy stared at each other. Then the beast –because humans didn’t have snouts, or stupid beady eyes, or fin-like ridges rising out of their heads- grunted. Perhaps its name, perhaps as a threat, still the croaked “Coke” set the boy to shiver, and wince back.

And reach down, first to feel at his pocket, then at his belt. Where he found another surprise, one not as benign as being somewhere he wasn’t supposed to be on waking. He went pale, froze, as realization sunk in.

Heart hammering, Silver winced back as the creature clambered in. Shivering, because the “Choke” was big, bigger than big, with muscles that bulked when it bent to better look at him. It sniffed and grumbled, then pointed a blunt taloned hand at him. To that obvious order Silver shuffled aside. He was reached around then, a box plucked from a bound pile of them, and rope that’d bound and the box the monster had wanted were carried off by the creature who was now intent on out.

“Are you coming or are the Machoke movers going to have something else to move?”

And though benign sounding, near sing-songed even... Silver hunched into his coat and tried to quell the familiar anxiety of being a trainer to a dark type who was being confronted by a fighting type. He followed after the Machoke once the creature’s shadow was beyond his view of outside.

And because he was super focused on the one he’d seen, he didn’t hear, or see, its companion coming around the side of the parked… whatever this was. 

The jolt of that unexpected encounter made him take a rough tumble from the back of the moving truck. The step had been made for an adult, and were it an incline it’d of been two for him. As it was he’d tried to hurry and his moment of fear made him land wrong. His leg slid out from under him, and it hurt. Was still hurting even after he’d shaken off offered paws and crawled to sitting, and the pain lingered while he fought for standing. Even after he’d tried walking a bit, it hurt even more. So much so he’d be tempted to call Sneasel so he could lean on her. But touching the emptiness that was his belt holster reaffirmed that she wasn’t there. So he raked his eyes around the world about him. The driveway, the house before him, the yard, a frantic look about for darkness, red quills, _anything_ familiar, and it got him nothing.

Because Sneasel wasn’t where she was supposed to be, with him, and the wrongness of it made him fuss with buttons so the milling Machoke wouldn’t’ see his hands shake. The Machoke, and it’s five other grey skinned friends wearing aprons reading “movers”, once seeing he was up, shuffled about him. Simple minds settling on simple things. Like the big wheeled, silvery, box he’d fallen out of and the many cardboard boxes within it.

“Are you coming, or not, slowpoke?”

Maybe she’d run off, Sneasel loved hide and seek. But there’d been no place to hide in… earlier… and she knew not to hide too long. Or hide in snowbanks. Or make snowbanks to hide in. She’d never broken those rules, any rules, ever, so why wasn’t she with him?

So when the lady called again, miming concern now, Silver shook himself. He didn’t have _his partner_ , he was hurt, so he dared not to run. 

So he didn’t.

His walk, more of a stagger, up the driveway and it’s white rocks that crackled was interspaced by the woman’s babbling. About a father he was supposed to care about. They passed a white picket fence, and it was something Green said homes had, so perhaps this was the crazy ladies home? The woman held the fences gate open for him, then quick stepped past him to open the door to a house as well. Making it obvious he was to come. And she didn’t stop once to use keys, or locks, he didn’t even see _one_ lock.

And that was weird. All the houses he’d ever broken into had locks, that’d been part of the fun.

“Really Branden you’re in such an odd mood today… What’s gotten into you?”

He opened his mouth, to say he wasn’t… Branden, or hers, or any of her expected things… but his mouth clicked shut. He tried again, and again, and he was unable to say anything. He stood before her, leaning against a hall wall, just clicking at her because his mouth wasn’t working right.

The helplessness of not being able to talk set a familiar taste to flood his mouth. It was all bitter and acidic with overtures of bad food. He’d learned to swallow it down, because bad or not food was food, and he had to eat. There wasn’t anything else to eat besides bad food sometimes, and bad thoughts that made him feel like he’d eaten bad food, he’s learned to swallow them down too.

He wasn’t good enough to _not_ near cry at the swallowing, but the woman didn’t see. She nodded, as if he’d said something that made sense, and went back to her assumptions.

She was his Mother. Or at least she thought so. She had to be the way she nattered about a “father” and meant it as if it was his. To her assumption his memory cries false. First, because he has none, when he thought of family there was nothing in his head. Never had been. Second, because Green, who had a family -the best, they’d share, Green’d _promised_ \- told him _all_ about fathers and mothers. And she told him something really useful in case he found someone pretending to be his. Families were supposed to look like you. 

And this woman, with her blue eyes, and brown hair, and wispy tallness, she looked _nothing_ like him.

  
  
So he said nothing. Watched with his typical silence and stepped aside with a weary glance back when the thud of feet drew near. A rasped “Choke” made him shuffle a bit more, press hard against a wall. Green’d called it “fighting type anxiety”, because whenever he saw a fighting type he got nervy. And considering his Sneasel’s weakness, doubly so per double typing, he thought he was being reasonable. He double hounddour dared her to snuggle Will’s Xatu when she really got on about him not liking fighting types, and then it’d be her turn to go pale, and snuggle nothing, so there. 

He sorta wished Will was there even if Will was always sort of mean, or Will’s Xatu, he wasn’t picky. Silver’d trade Will _and_ Xatu for a nice flying type, but _only_ after he got Sneasel, because he wasn’t leaving without her.

And this woman who was chattering about journeys like they were important, like she expected him to go on one, didn’t get it. He felt a tiny bit bad, that she didn’t know that he wasn’t going on one, ever, but he didn’t tell her that. 

When she moved, he followed, looking all about, but so far no dark types popped out of shadows to surprise him and ice him in welcome.

They walked until they had left a hall and were both were in a tiled room with wide, open, windows. Silver wasn’t sure what type of room it was, not familiar with houses, but the metal sink and empty place were something long and rectangular was meant to be but wasn’t seemed important. This, Mother person, turned from him, focusing on the counter besides her. Said counter was different than the ones that held his Sneasel’s pokeball when he wasn’t on missions. It was white with wide yellow stripes, no ice anywhere, the only similarities were that it was imbedded in the wall and that was it. The box atop it was marked “kitchen”, and that word seemed familiar, a _Green word_ about home, but he wasn’t sure.

A quick look around showed Sneasel’s ball wasn’t on it, or in the room, so Silver decided this room was a loss and was going to look at all the rooms, then the truck, and then outside.

Another “Choke”, and Silver crunched himself into the wall by the counter, closest to the window. The creature hugged a tall, white, box to itself. Near scratching the ceiling with it’s box the beast tromped in. To the sight of… whatever was being held, the woman who assumed she was a “mother” looked up, smiling brightly.

“Ah, that’s where it went! Thanks for getting the ‘fridge. There, please, but plug it in first…”

That… fridge… looked scarily big enough to put a person in. A small person could be crunched up right in the top door part and… And Silver shivered, holding his coat tight, trying not to cry. Crying was bad, made Mask take Sneasel away, so he wouldn’t.

Another Machoke walked about as he tried not to cry. Using the hall to pass from front to deeper in. Boxes held in the grey creature’s meaty hands. It strolled by once, twice, three times, then with a huff poked it’s head in to the room with the fridge being fussed with and whined. Literally whined a “Ma!” like the littlest of kids Silver’d seen at the park once. 

Seeing everyone in the room was looking at him, the beast shook what it held. The safe, tan, _not freezer box_ , rattled under the abuse.

“Oh, that’s Bran-brans,” The Mother chirped, turning to him, seeing and not seeing him all at once. “Show him up to your room sweetie.”

He wasn’t going to cry. He was going to walk, despite everything hurting, and show this… thing… where Branden’s room was. Because this crazy lady couldn’t tell him from a Branden, and the creature, seeing him more clearly than the “mother” did, tipped it’s ridged head, and shook the box at him. Like it were a treat box and he’d get a treat from it if he hurried along.

Curiously the box hummed back, near rattled, and both boy and fighting type looked at it. Waiting. When it went quiet, and Sneasel didn’t pop out of it, Silver screwed up his courage and led the hulking beast deeper in.

He didn’t know the house. Knew “up” likely meant stairs, and he was grateful that when he found the stairs that they had a rail he could lean on and use to hop up with all at once. 

The span up was… well roomy and room filled. He pulled open doors, leaving the ones that weren’t right, open. It’s of course the last door he tries that that’s the right one. Farthest from the biggest room and stairs all at once, it’s not pink shrouded like the first roomed been, not a bathroom like the second, or a closet like the third. This one has a fluffy blue carpet with a green bed already made pushed against a corner by a small slit of a window.

And there’s nothing else.

No chairs, no… doo-dads that’d Green liked to pocket, no counters even. You could just put some coils filled coolant under the rug and it’d be just like his cell back home.

But it had a bed, and it wasn’t frilly.

So he just guessed, too tired to care if he was right or not.   
  
“By the beds fine.”  
  
The box was dropped with a thud and the beast, grumbling at all the stupid long side trips they’d taken, stomped out. Perhaps it was spite, but once it’d left Silver scampered up the bed, scampered because Branden was way bigger then him and his bed showed that, and he got enough height from bed and its wooden headboard to reach the slit window. 

And to spite Mask, and the reeking stale Machoke smell that was somehow worse than Karen’s hounddour, he pulled the window open as far as he could…

And near fell right off his perch for it. But the room smelled better, so there was that.

So it was worth it.

Jumping back on the bed, Silver flopped on his back, glowering at the ceiling. There was so little in the house, in all the rooms he’d seen were empty save one thing and flooring. Beds for the bedrooms, washing brick a brack for the bathrooms, the counter for the kitchen and nothing in the halls. He was positive Sneasel wasn’t anywhere near here. This place was too quiet, she was too noisy. The house wasn’t icy at all, which was bad for ice types. Left alone Sneasel’d of put snow piles and ice slicks everywhere she could, and done so noisily because she loved to cackle while she froze things.

So she obviously wasn’t out of her pokeball.

Silver groaned, realizing he was going to have to dig through _all_ the boxes to find her pokeball and let her out. He thumped his legs, whined deep in his throat so _that_ at least wouldn’t be heard. Because there’d been piles of boxes, big and small, and he couldn’t count them all. There were more boxes than he knew how to count up to, and that was just in the part of the moving truck he could see. There could be more, scalds more, elsewhere, that he didn’t even know about.

Reaching around, he snagged a pillow and snuggled it close. It wasn’t fair, none of it was, he wanted Sneasel, he wanted Green, he wanted…

Well he never _got_ what he wanted. So Silver twisted to sitting and looked gloomily at box number one of… more than he could count up to. A shove got the pillow off of him and out of the way and he squirmed to the edge of the bed. It was a big one, not as bad as the oversized monstrosity he’d seen in store windows and wondered what they were like. And nothing like the giant thing he’d lay in after breaking into that store once.

That bed had been _gigantic_ , and he and Sneasel’d been near lost among the down, and sheets, and comforters, almost getting caught from getting tangled. They’d made an escape among flying feathers and frozen winds. Taking one of the comforters with them, the soft green thing that got caught in Sneasel’s claws, and been dragged out behind them until Silver’d saw it, stopped, and bundled the lot in Sneasel’s claws before they got to running again.

Inspired by the hue he’d offered it to Green while she’d been in the middle of yelling at them. They’d been five parking lots away, far and safe, and he’d let her yell a little because he knew he’d been bad. Bad _and_ stupid, per Green, but it’d been worth it. He said so. And then he had given Green the soft fabric that looked like her name and she’d stopped yelling.

It was hers so she’d never get cold again. And she could yell all she wanted to he knew that being warm wasn’t stupid. So stealing the fabric had been right. And now she’d never get cold, and wasn’t that worth something?

Green’d bundling him, and herself, and Sneasel, in the fabric because it was _that_ big, and her hiccupping sobs as she’d held him close and called him “so so stupid” while crying and laughing all at once…

It’d been confusing to say the least.

Sort of like this box, it was confusing too. He pulled at the boxes topmost flaps, and finding the lot taped up he pulled harder. Silver bit at the tape lines, scraped nails along edges, but the tape was on really good. So, after a glance down the hall showing him there was no Machoke or “mothers” or anything that’d catch him out he unbuttoned his left sleeve and rolled the fabric up. Once the bandages around his arms were bared he worked at worn knots. The long shard of translucent glass was revealed with a bit of unwinding; wiggling his arm got the shard of glass fell onto the bed.

He rewound the fabric over the wider part of the glass, making a grip of sorts. Silver had made this fake knife after his metal one had triggered an alarm at Goldenrod’s train station. He’d wanted to see Green, who was poking around Kanto for her Mom and Dad so they could go to her home (his home too she’d always chimed in), and all he wanted to do was see her because she’d been gone too long. The guards who’d given him funny looks before the alarm, and their hostility after the walls of that short humming hallway had started screaming…. They hadn’t understood, so he’d run. And he’d dropped his knife into the ocean, rocks tied to it for good measure, once the train station was far behind him. 

Because metal knives made metal halls scream Silver swore to never use one ever again. So he hadn’t. Picking up glass from broken windows after people in black shirts with R’s on them broke windows and the things beyond them. Those were always the easiest, cleanest, bits of glass to pick up. And there were often torn signs, fabric, and banners to take from too. He’d had rainbow bandages once because of that.

And that’d been neat until they’d dulled due to dirt.

Sure of his grip and that the fabric wasn’t going to slide, Silver reached and slit the box and its’ taped up top. A tug and the lid popped open, and blue ears sprung up, old tension released with a soft “bing”. Near giggling, Silver bit his lip. He wasn't allowed to laugh at things, even stilly things like ears in boxes. Mask made sure he knew that, and trained him to be better than that, but still the impulse was there. He smiled, not quite daring to laugh, before getting a grip on an ear and pulling the lot up.

It was round, and blue, and white, and had button on eyes. It took him a long moment of staring and thinking about all the stupid stuff Green liked to talk about to understand this soft, _not pillow_ , in his hands was a stuffed Azumarel. The flap of its left ear read “bran brans” and Silver patted it down, turned it, shook it, and when nothing came out he pushed it after the pillow. Under the fluffy thing were clothes. Pulling up one shirt found it to be bright and way too big, and clearly this “mother” person was stupid because Silver was not going to be big enough to wear that shirt unless he got older than Green. And Green was really old, life five whole fingers older than him. He dropped the fabric after the toy, and pulled out more, and more. At first he’d been neat, piling the lot into a sort of welcome mat for the bed, but sixth shirt in and he didn’t care anymore. The whole was bright, and sorta looked like stuff the always happy character in Omega Proton man might wear, but even that wasn’t enough to make Branden’s clothes likable. They were bright, you couldn’t hide in them, and there were these stupid acorn head hats everywhere… 

And mat became pile, became mess, because Silver tried to tipped the box, and knocked everything over around it instead. He listened for, and got, that comforting mechanical rattle. He was near on top of electronics, and that buzz from before had sounded a little like a pokeball. He’d get to the bottom and find Sneasel and…

And a tap from the door frame got him to look up, looking all the world like a frazzle diglet he was in so deep.

“You can unpack your games and stuff _after_ you check up on the professor. Your starter got in today and while I know you want to settle in won’t it be wonderful with a new partner to help you out?”  
  


He’d almost got down to the bottom. Felt wires after he moved some underthings. Silver was nearly right there and Sneasel had to be there, just had to be. So he shook his head, eyes wide, because he was scared to try talking. Least he click instead of speak. 

He doesn’t want to say anything and find out what it’s like to get shunted into the box on top of the ‘fridge, because that sounds like something Mask would do. And he’d been told time and time again, everything worked for Mask, all was for Mask’s plans. Even this woman, who didn’t see how things were, and looked down at him like he was everything of her world, she might be with Mask. She might be part of Mask’s rightness.

And Silver, really did not want to be shoved into that ‘fridge, for anything.

His eyes are pricking, and in that moment all his training fails him, and he sniffled up at her. Just… wanting so many things that weren’t there just then even though he’s not supposed to want anything…. 

And she, to her credit, sees for the first time since he’d met her. Crossing the distance from door to bed, she sits beside him and he settles besides her, letting her draw him close. She held him, getting her arms in the right place to hold him despite the obvious difference between his height, and Branden’s.

She’s warmer than Green, and smells sweet, like the sweetest shampoos and conditioners in the store aisle all mixed together. And if he cried on her, well she didn’t yell at him for it.

It’s alright Sweetie, I know this is big, a big move and everything, but everything’s going to be fine.”

“M’ OK.” He mutters, and she is smoothing his hair, nonsensical noises in attendance that are meant to be soothing, and with a ruffle small to the topmost of his locks she lets go.  
  
“There’s my brave little man.” And she’s smiling, so wide and bright and he’s waiting for it. The other foot, the misleading line that leads to disaster…  
  
And he’s spent too much time with Green if that’s where his thoughts go.  
  
The smile he tips her way is warmed a bit by the thought of Green, and it passes muster, as she gets up to go.  
  
“Clean up a bit and head on out dear. A walk will sooth your nerves. I’ll let the Professor know you’re going to be late… I’m sure it’ll be fine.”  
  
Funnily enough it’s her assurance that isn’t sure that sounds the most right.  
  
“And when you get back show me your new friend, alright?”  
  
Agreeing will get her out faster, so Silver nods, because he doesn’t want his voice to break, because he’ll really start crying and he isn’t too sure what will make him stop. So he won’t start. That’s all that’s to it.

He watches her leave, waves even, and once she’s gone he gets up, walks to the door, and quietly pulls it closed. Once alone, he walks to the box and a kick knocks it over and he’s half in it, pulling wires and flat square things out. and at the bottom, tucked into a corner he finds it. Not a pokeball, but a phone.

It’s old, the type of phone that Green’d taught him how to flitch and when they had twenty they’d go to the men and women in black shirts with those red R’s on their fronts and sell them. For money, the most money, and those were good days. Day’s they’d eat the best meals that weren’t from trash cans and kiosks and sleep in hotels with a pool and try to figure out swimming and stuff. The second his fingers slide over the thing’s black casing it hummed to life, and he near dropped it in shock. He lets it hum five times in his hand, then, because it’s going on ring si-seven he clicks it open, and sets the thing to his ear.

And because Green had grilled and grilled that he had to talk into the things, that people wouldn’t just talk at him, he offered a quiet hello.  
  
The hiss of drawn air on the other side is like the noise you make when an injury is realized in a safe place. The background noise is a thrum of irritating… he isn’t sure _what_ the sound is beyond sketchily rythmatic… and to that he nearly hangs up.

  
And the voice on the other line as if knowing that, speaks quick and sharp. It’s one word, that nearly makes Silver click the phone closed anyways.  
  
This adult -whoever he is- _knows his name_ , breathes his name, like the word were a wound.  
  
The voice sounds… funny. Like the guys in the corners who buy the stuff he and Green take. It’s deep, like an adult guy but not raspy like the Mask’s. So the speaker’s old, but not too old. That’d didn’t mean safe though. Hunching around the phone, missing the pillow, Silver stares at nothing as he considers what he knows.  
  
It’s not much. He doesn’t know who it is, but it’s not the Mask, he weighs both facts in silence and does not hang up.  
  
And the voice, it seems to know that. It keeps talking into Silver’s silence, voice a bit breathy, as if they were talking after a run.

“I... don’t think you remember me, or know of me yet, do you?” The voice speaks, as if that nonsense was familiar. They sounded pained, and that funny way of talking was stringer the more they talked. Still, this wasn’t Mask, and the background noise is dying down. Silver imagines someone walking away from the ruckus, he can’t even imagine what’s causing it so he can’t imagine what the guy’s walking away from, but the sound is easing off.  
  
“No,” Silver agreed, pulling the phone closer, since the awful noise is quieting it feels safe to do so. He sits on the bed’s edge, legs kicking idly. “Am I supposed too?”  
  
To that the man on the other line barks something too biter to be a laugh. “It’d be preferred but it’s not… expected. Let me guess, you woke up someplace you weren’t meant to be and the first thing you found that was familiar was this phone.”  
  
Which is close enough, Silver hums a note and the voice is familiar enough with him to understand his non-answers because the voice keeps going.  
  
“Do you have Sneasel?”  
  
How did he know about that? Silver opened his mouth, closed it, and waited, letting quiet wear and it wasn’t much of a wait because it seemed there wasn’t something to wear down.  
  
“I know her, I know you… “ The voice assured. “And I went through this…” Silver could _hear_ the grimace. “In a different when and where.” A huff. “I _am_ going through this I suppose. He’ll have Her, Professor Birch, whatever he gives you will be Her. I wish I could offer you more, but right now, I can’t.”  
  
“Alright.” It’s a hope of sorts, and Silver will take it, questions can wait. For now.  
  
“I…” And there’s a different sort of ruckus, of people approaching, and Silver hops off the bed, darts to bathroom. The noise isn’t on his side but there’s a bathroom attached to this small room. He goes in and turns on the faucet to buy a little time in case someone comes in on his side. Because this is important, this person knew about Sneasel, and if he could stay on the phone long enough what else would Silver learn? And all that effort’s for nothing, because after a moment where Silver can hear the irritation, though it’s not spoken its’ strong enough to carry over the phone line without noise, the voice growls, “I _have_ to go.”  
  
“Alright.” Green’s manners lessons and a wry truth all at once, he’s multitasking and Green’d be proud. A voice, not the one speaking to him, is hollering “Moon, where are you going?!” and because he lingers in near silence Silver hears it. Soft and rushed, more wish than want, are the alien words “ _Mi raccomando_ ,” spoken. Then there’s nothing but a dial tone, and Silver clicks the phone closed and pockets it.

He’ll keep it, the boy decides, after all _it is_ familiar and the person on the other line had given him a hope.

He’ll find Birch. He’ll find Sneasel before she breaks out and started freezing things, too. Because Sneasel freezing things and people might be her favorite thing but having to make excuses for her isn’t one of his. He’ll find her, and then get to Green’s home, and… it’ll be better than any story. Worlds better than any happily ever after, because it’ll be real, but first he has to get Sneasel, and staying here won’t let him do so.

So he splashes water over his face, smooths back his hair so he won’t look a fright and worry Sneasel, and gets to going.


	2. Getting Sneasel

A quick walk about town and he was bored. The highlights of the day besides it’s insane start were the quick hug and kiss on leaving from a woman who wasn’t his mother but insisted she was and the fact that further immersion beyond the four walls of “home” showed him he really did not recognize anything. 

Green’d be insufferable and he sort of missed that, but was glad that he didn’t have to hear it in part because that’d mean Green was trapped in this crazy with him…

And thinking about the complexities set heart and head to aching so he stopped, after taking a few deep breathes and ordering him to do so he did, eventually.

Over all the place was small, a scamper up a tall tree left him a tentative count of twenty buildings that was maybe twenty one when you counted the long white attachment to the two story one at town’s edge. Regardless, he’d seen smaller and avoided such. Because there were fewer opportunities for shelter in abandoned places the smaller a town got and a surplus of closeness such smallness encouraged meant more nosy people. He barely tolerated people as a norm and nosy people were a special type of burden he’d siced Sneasel on a few times even though Green and the resultant screaming of his “solution” pointed it to being the wrong answer.

He walked quicker, by passing cheery greetings of “hey, new kid!” taking heart from the fact that if he was new than there’d be no expectations of any kind.

Specifically of lingering.

He headed to the largest building, because it looked like the one Green’d shown him, filched from magazines and logs about trainers. Part lab, part ranch, likely a reserve, and though Green intents had been different (starters, particularly Kanto ones were supposedly stupid strong and wouldn’t it be great to have one of those? They could show the Mask up easily then) reserves meant scientists.

Which meant professors and perhaps the Professor Birch, who had his Sneasel.

It was all accidental, the man’s poketheft of his Sneasel, but still he near smiled at the amusement of one of the more uptight positions of society baring so dark a crime. 

So with a little chuckle because, it was funny, really was, someone so supposedly nice and, to quote Greens trainer article a “cornerstone of the community” doing something so Mask level bad, Silver barked out a soft laugh even as he threw himself over a fence that was between here and where he wanted to go. He’d quit roadway and cut his way across a series of yards that preceded the tallest house in town. Ignoring the occasional growling growlithe over one of the nicer yards, he was across and falling back down along the opposide side of the fence, the third bark ringing at his back and someone else’s property no less, only a little winded and grinning tightly Silver cut the last span at a good lope.

Racing himself wasn’t as fun as racing Green and Sneasel but it got him there quick and that’s all he needed, and it was near touching distance to that white picket fence, it’s decorative spikes dissuading him from a running jump over, he’d just get up then jump on the support beams connecting the lot around the middle, a hop from that would get him the rest of the way…

But that scream, high pitched and strained, stilled his run. That and the bob of blue hair haring his way from the arched entrance point between coming and going from the town and… And silver frowned, trying to remember if he’d spied it when he’d been driven from here to whatever he’d started…

Having drawn near enough to really interrupt Silver’s wondering the boy, smaller than him and round faced and stupid young to be on his own howled. “Help! Help! Wild’tenyas are eatten’ the ‘fesser!”

Well, he didn’t know what a “tyenna” was, but the eating part sounded bad. A quick look around showed no one else being out, and though near the lab seemed far away and it’s dark entrance way alluded to locking, and being closed while it’s owner was out and about.

Which meant this eaten person was likely the one having his Sneasel.

So it was with understandable unenthusiasm he turned to the boy, who’d latched to him sniffling and what not, carrying on about how he had to “Save the ‘essor!”

Unable to help himself Silver let the child cling, then gently eased back the boy’s arms and nudged him back.

“I can’t save him with you clinging on that tight, right?”

A sniffle and head shake served as answer.

“Now take a deep breathe in then let it out….”

“But the ‘fess-“

“In and out.”

The responding motion was near gasped, but it stopped the crying, Silver bent down then, meeting the child eye to eye because the crying was done then and it was safe to do so.

“Now, where’s the ‘fessor?”

“Thataway!” out went one arm, towards the arch and the expected span out.

“Alright, thanks.” Because _see Green_ , he _could_ learn manners. “Now go home and don’t let any birds get you, alright?”

Clearly mystified the boy took the path Silver’d skipped, the one with all the flowers and smoothness and went towards the houses clustered together in the town proper. With a wave Silver turned from the boy who was going but insistent on looking back, another scream sounded, and for a moment Silver considered just finding a flattish rock, shucking off the bright vest of a coat he’d taken from Brandon’s things, and taking a nap. He could wait at the man’s door or something, till screaming stopped and get Sneasel from the mess after the whatever it was was done eating. It’d be safer, he didn’t’ have Sneasel, so it made sense to go about his mission with utmost care...

And that last thought , it’s tail end, made him freeze, vest half on half off, wandering eyes slamming shut as nausea slammed down.

He wasn’t on a mission. 

There were no missions, them getting away made sure of that.

Green’d promised and he’d promised her and himself, no more missions, ever.

Running his hands, over the edges of a mask that wasn’t, he took the comfort of feeling his face and not icy jagged that seemed smooth until it wasn’t and he had bloody fingers for that finding.

Another scream, another moment, and Silver wrapped the vest about one hand. It’d take a Bite, the impromptu shield and draw a bit of blood that’d be enough for him to dole out a kick. And if the thing was stupid he had a knife of sorts, and it’d do. So he ran along paths towards screams and quit them when they did not. Tall grass slapped about his legs and hips, one rise, he hopped over it skipping over rocks and a white clad form twisted among them. The person rose even as Silver hopped in front of them, glass knife raised, namesake hued eyes thinned.

“Get!”

The black and blocky canine with red eyes glared past him, at prey deferred, and lifted fangs in a snarl.

“T…take one of..”

Silver wasn’t taking anything, turning about, or looking away for anything in the world. Because the slant of ears and raised hackles promised death and maiming at best, the typing, alluded by color of pelt and a particular solidarity to its shadow and how it blackened the grass it stood over warned of best being highly unlikely.

Silver’d known, he was partnered to a dark type after all.

“Throw one of them in if you can.” Silver barked over his shoulder, and then charged the canine, yelling gibberish threateningly enough, waving his blade quick and low, and the canine hopped back and bared yellow fangs, a howl aborted in a yelp as glass edge struck home and held. “We’re not food! Hunt someone else!”

“Enna!” A short bark howl completed and the response was immediate. Behind the hostile ‘mon the grass shook and other red eyes peered at them, inching closer, considering odds, was it worth it to save a pack mate who’d been bloodied and kill the assailant or to slink off and make a different kill and live another day. Silver counted two pairs of eyes, maybe three; he could only look from his main problem at short burst at a time.

“Throw something, throw your whole team out, stupid!”

There went Greens “Nice” lessons out the window, oh well.

He dodged a charge, side stepping and stabbing down, the canine pivoted from its charge at the white clad man to take a stab at the unarmed arm. And it got a taste of unwashed bunchy cloth that covered Silver’s fist and the force of a quick punch to the snout for his troubles.

It was young whatever it was, not instinctually biting until after it had tackled it’d prey into immobility and the canine’s lack of experience was all that saved Silver’s hand if not his arm because when it bite it did so slowly enough Silver was able to squirm the fabric off and it took the material in jaw and clamped down.

Though clumsy he stabbed around his own stagger back, leaving cloth to beast and whipping his unshielded arm back and up and lunging forward all at once. There should be an award for tuning such flailing into an attack and his stab nearly took out a red eye out besides. The beast yowled, hopped back, and the hiss pop and flash of light to his back was welcome. Fire spat out, something clucked, water chased fire, splattering against something beyond his awareness of the yowling thing before him. It was insane with rage now, foaming at the mouth like one of the Masks pet projects being exposed to Berserk Gene and Silver hopped back, knife up, aware of ever flaw, every jag, and that the next swipe would be his last.

And it was, the thing charged, and Silver swung and he could feel/hear the glass break even as it embedded into the things back and it plowed into him, knocking him off his feet. Instinct lead it to snarl, fangs spread wide, hot breath near his face save down and Silver set his hands and shoved at the things sternum, he wasn’t losing a finger to the things lower jaws and…

And black chill and blessedly familiar slid over his head and the hot breath and snarling furry thing was gone.

Claws sunk and freezing the ground over his shoulders, feathers spread wide, Sneasel hissed and chirped, claws scraping death threats and dripping red where they’d hit true. A nudge on Sneasel’s ankles got her to shuffle a few steps and Silver was sitting up, a twist and he could see as Sneasel stood before him, waving her claws and screeching. Beyond them two mon’ stood guard over a dazed looking old guy. A young fire chicken type and water… whatever… it was were quick at work spitting their elements and driving off the less berserk members of this places pack.

As for the leader and instigator of the takedown, he growled, howled, then bound off. Sneasel, ever spiteful, chased after him, turning flouncy retreat to a tail over snout bolt and made it bloody besides. Pursuit done and with a hunk of tail at its end she docile padded up to him, turning grass to hoarfrost with each step and looking smug for so many reasons. She then offered the bloody morsel, because that’s how Sneasel packs ( _Sneasal Familia Famil_ , stated one banned book on ice types that the Mask had let him read when he’d been learning how) operated. Win and get a treat, win for someone else and give them a treat to show affection.

So Silver smiled, and took the morsel most would have cringed back from, and pocketing the wet half frozen tail he lunged hugged her. Ignoring frost and shivers he held her close.

“So ah… I didn’t catch a … but if you want her…”

So said the voice of wisdom, or tried to say, the Professor was a mess, even more so than the average adult was, Silver learned then.

“She’s with me.”

Voice wobbling, holding to a familiar script as if it were a scrap of sanity, the man muttered inanely. “Did you want to nickname her?”

“She’s with me, mine, _she’s_ _my Sneasel_ , and I didn’t name her something because that’s a baby thing and I’m not a baby!” Silver huffed; bitterly glad he had someone, anyone, to actually say a truth at. And wondering at that echo in his head. Like he’d said this to someone else, someone surly more competent than this… whoever, whatever this person was who others called Professor.

“Alright…” A cough… “Let me get up… and we can go back to the lab.

 _“You fought while sitting down?”_ Warred with the equally incredulous “ _What makes you think I’m going with someone as stupid as you?_ ”

Only Greens niceness socializing lessons stilled his tongue, as well as his stomach, which growled at his backbone and made him bite his lip.

“Umm…” Struggling to standing, with a wince behind, Professor Birch stood, and then looked at the milling fire hazard and drowning hazard and then recalled them both never mind the pack that’d nearly had him for lunch. Silver rolled his eyes. Couldn’t help himself and didn’t care if the guy saw his rudeness. “I have sandwiches? At home?”

As far as Silver was concerned they better be really good warm sandwiches or he was gone.

He wondered how people could be this stupid and if the guy from the phone had to deal with this level of stupid or if he had had an easier time. He hoped the guy had had an easier time, weirdness non-withstanding, because this level of stupid was giving Silver a Arceus sized headache and it wasn’t even lunch yet.


	3. NEW Giovanni Introduction:  A bit like Genesis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm presently rehauling all my chapters for this fic and am going to likely move the Giovanni chapters to replace the Silver ones in starting this story. This is the new introduction to the Giovanni section detailing the scene between him and Celebi from the Rocket's perspective.

NEW Giovanni Introduction: A bit like Genesis

The lot was a shade anticlimactic and stereotypical considering it was the most holy spot in Johto. Ringed round by a forest that was sprawling and verdant, it’s epic center was a miniature shrine carved and left in the clearing long ago. Raised up from earth by a pile of mossy rocks, the whole, set by the rocky beach of a pool, could be dismissed as a prosaic grave marker of a nontraditional slant. But there were little signs all about that there was no burial at all. The whole was merely a piling of stones, it’s presence arranged to summon an emotional state upon the trespasser.

A wanderer would be a fool to at least not slow when they stumbled upon it. Respect, if not caution, would give a regular traveler pause. And perhaps, for the squeamish, the view would be a reason to turn about.

Hardly ordinary, or squeamish, he had stopped. But only to confirm that this place matched the descriptions he’d seen and heard. Once he was satisfied this piece of cliché was right, Giovanni Sakaki turned back towards the more mundane forest and it’s gloom. Near invisible in the thick shade of the trees about them, the various _sottocapo_ of the Johto province lingered on the edge of the prosaic scene. Respectfully adverting their gazes, fingering pokeballs and guns and considering the world behind them while their Boss leaned upon a moss marred bit of flora and struggled to breathe.

The fit came and went. With a ragged gasp Giovanni straightened, fishing out the handkerchief from his breast pocket he dabbed at the moisture about his lips and jaw with practiced motions. If the wetness was blood its hue differed so little from the fabric it was impossible to tell one way or the other.

Wordlessly the Boss of Team Rocket tucked the wet fabric into its place. The black of his suit would obscure what needed to be hidden for vanities sake. As for the men and women under his command, they were silent, only the small motions that marked the living from the dead made the traditional black kevlar vests and padded vestments meant to ward off fangs of wild and trained ‘mon rustle. A snapped of his fingers, and the lot quit the polite fiction of not noticing him dying. An arm wave and they were dismissed. With flashes of light marking their paths, said light flaring only to dull into form and frame of various dark and poison ‘mon, the Executives quick marched into the forest. They’d take watch, and their places while the Boss did what needed doing.

And if he failed they’d turn weapon and ‘mon among each other, turn sacred woods to killing ground all to establish a new order when artificial grave became one in truth.

As if should be.

It was the shrine that’d been the final nail in the coffin.

Present yet divorced of the reality around it. It was weather beaten, and obviously aged, yet in turn it was clean. The moss that ran down from trees to blanket the whole of the clearing, only sparing the waterhole at its heart, did not grow along the wooden shrines sides though the rocks that bore it were near smothered in the stuff. There was no evidence of one set to tend to this place, no foot prints, no priests, no visitors for ages. Its very existence was a contradiction, spoken of enough to be common yet its location unknown. As for the varied beasts of the forest, none would not fly over the clearing, swarms of zubat, flocks of pidg’ of all evolutions, they broke from their own migration patterns to avoid this place. And driving a ‘mon towards it with force had failed. Wild beasts would freeze as if plowing into some unseen web and though they’d writhe and struggle they could not go forward. They’d only twist back or make a path parallel with the invisible boundary regardless of whatever violence was leveled against them.

Curious though that the tamed could be summoned, would ignore the barrier as if it were nonexistent. And the varied test subject he’d sent in first did so with no repercussions. A toss of two pokeballs to call forth the oldest, and most loyal members of his personal menagerie and he was no longer alone. While they blinked back light of ended suspended animation, Giovanni took in the near perfect silence. The only sounds were his ragged breathing and the quiet click of him setting the pokeballs on his holster. With a tired wave of his arm, first left then right, he set Persian to take one route and Nidoking to go the other. They knew that baring some trainer before them or an obvious show of force leveled against their trainer that their standing orders were to go to ground. Contingency set in place, the Rocket limped past the tree line and into the clearing proper.

He avoided a dousing courtesy of his vanity. Despite the heat of the day he’d forgone sense for tradition and symbol to better cow his underlings. Though a stereotype all its own his black fedora had kept the water of falling dew off his back, and his trench coat had deflected the rest. Each step of his steel tipped boots left little scars in the mix match of moss and grass about him as he picked a careful path towards the water, towards that shrine that was devoid of dew through near everything around it was all but drowning.

And to that amusing contradiction and to spite himself the Boss of Team Rocket, Giovanni Sakaki, walked to his probable death with a huff of amusement. The noise summoned a white tail to rise out of the foliage. Noticing, he snapped his fingers with a scowl, and the feline’s limb slipped below the grass line, making the clearing seem empty once more.

Alone, for all intents and purposes, the Rocket staggered the last few steps to the pools rock ringed base and wondered in that near perfect quiet how the impious were meant to summon a god.

He’d a small collection of relics and markers, holy symbols and charms that were pillaged from the various towns and shrines around and about Illex Forrest rattled in a box in his pocket. As worthless as loose change, they were, in theory, steeped with mythology and the stuff of tales. In fact the lot was the sickening relics of outdated spiritual practices. Preserved finger bones wrapped in half rotted shrouds were keeping company with wooden scraps that were twined in wish papers and prayer beads. There were stinking things seeped in tree gunk and speckled with feathers that were touted to be from the wings of Legends. DNA testing and basic observation had proven that “Legend” false and common sense screamed that the rest was mummery as well.

Still these _things_ were the backbone of many local superstitions that’d been repeated until it’d ascended to something higher. And at their heart, considering tales and the like, there was one communal theme that bound them besides insanity.

Sacrifice.

The box and it’s assorted assortment was large enough to near fill his deepest coat pocket, and that’d been something of an irritant and boon. The plastic casting had necessitated he wear a holster for his gun and tolerate the thing being wound about his waist like a copper. Though Giovanni personally detested being so overt armed he’d be a fool not to be. The arrangement was such that there was just enough room for him to slide a digit over the boxes’ edge and seam without compromising the pocket, and he did so, weighing his options.

This was it, make or break. It was in mild shock and amusement he weighed options that’d seemed more fantasy than anything else before. And he circled around practicalities. Rituals were just bargains in archaic trappings.

So what could the dying offer something that was effectively immortal?

Allegiance was a limited thing if things stayed unchanged, but were his health issues reverse the effort would likely stretch into intolerability. Wealth was a human made construct. As for preservation of the Legend’s grounds and non-interference when the gears of industry ground up the remaining reserves of Kanto and Johto … Well the offer was centered around a human construct and likely to be misunderstood as a threat in all likelihood.

Which left him… what to offer then?

He couldn’t make a deal unless he either had leverage or collateral.

Finger near pricking on a seam, Giovanni withdrew his hand and pulled out the box along with his digit. Flipping it open he stared at the individually wrapped, fussily tab, segregated by lines of raised plastic, labeled, offerings of ages past. They’d been made with no little sacrifice from their originators; if nothing else sanity had been tossed to the winds as their original owners had bound ritual to tawdry to make… these trinkets.

And who said the “sacrifice” had to be something of his own?

Cracking a Persian’s smile, all edges and cruelty, Giovanni considered offering and clearing and the subtle tells he could scrounge from its frame and form. There was no place to set the offering before the shrine. The pool got in the way one way and the rave the other. The structure was too shallow to place anything within, and the effort of keeping wood from being effected by reality warned that such may not be wanted.

Which left one option, really, and he looked at the pool, dark eyes glinting with a morbid amusement.

These Legends were painfully predictable.

A fit took him then. Steeling smugness as pain made him bend double, and stubbornness made him lock his legs least he toppling head first into the water. He clicked the box shut at fit’s start. But not before his labored bloody breathing had tainted the lot, receptacle and innards both. But stubborn only went so far and he went down on his knees as the attack continued. Mirroring the poise of prayerful repose all unintentional, he fought against his Legend damned death for another breath, another minute, another hour…. Weeping all unintended, as pain hit reflex, and crashed into instinct, to make him look a pathetic image of suffering. On the whole he’d mimed a show of repentance, all by accident. Made doubly ironic for it was done at the foot of the shrine of a Legend, one he hadn’t wronged, or earned a lethal curse from.

Yet.

Striving not to vomit, the Rocket shuddered and panted, eyes slammed shut least the light catch just so to trigger a migraine and vomiting spell all at once. His thoughts devolved from plots and angles to panicked mantra, a chant that hammered in time with his pulse…

_Not yet, not yet._

The fit passed, and when he dared crack open his eyes he found the world ominously dim and swimming. A bloody mass clasped in his hands, an iron tinged mess staining the front of his uniform and a familiar warmth trickling down his face that warned he had vomited, efforts non-withstanding.

Scraping an arm over the top of the box, solid slid off with the blood. And to that grim reality, of death being so close, the Boss of Team Rocket decided to just give the offering before things got worse.

Because the only _worse_ here was dead, and death wasn’t an option, he’d not allow it.

With a shove he managed to sitting up somewhat straight, and with the last of his strength he shoved the box, blood and all, over the thin line of stones that served as this temple’s bank and the lot slid into the deep pool. The offering was accepted without a ripple.

And it ended as it had started, by following the patterns of cliché.

To his offering of age old trinkets and present agony he’d, all accidental, set a sun to rise from within the pool. Save it was fireless and nothing burned. It was a slow rise and stained stone edges sepia like a sunrise would stain the sky molten hues of silver and gold. His blood on the stone boiled away, and a tingling rush about his face and hands was perhaps his dying being scrubbed away by the fastidious light. With a hiss, he struggled, from kneeling to standing, though his legs trembled at the effort.

And so it was, when the sylvan god of Illex forest rose from illumination and water both it found the soul who’d summoned it standing, and not groveling as was a summoner’s norm.

The creature’s utterance, at seeing Celebi, was equally baffling. A thing of numbers and nonsense. Even the uptick of its lips as it looked upon the Legend was off. Both bitter and biting even though the black clad biped had no fangs to it’s jaw, or strength to it at all. All Celebi could sense was a pal of death, the reek of near dying, and to that the Legend tipped it’s leafy head. Utterly lost.

“Genesis 1:3.” A huff, sound meant to be a laugh if death weren’t so close to the thing talking. “How fitting.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know I can't seem to write nice, merciful, legendary for anything... A bit of background and stage setting, the next chapter should be Gio focused. Enjoy.

Celebi had offered more than one cure at the time, seeing two wounds that were carrying off the creature it’d grown attached too. And while vitality resorted might have led to the path of both being healed the wound closest to the heart, time had twisted it so horridly and it’s barer he wasn’t sure.

So he dithered.

When the black clad creature with its stiff wide hopping had asked for healing Celebi was in a bit of a dilemma. There was the offering, pride sacrificed, and for this one their mere feat of asking had shifted some cosmic balance and attuned to such he could feel the vibrations, of the motions inside his bones.

Rarely were his ilk players of the world. They could wreck it so easily and it was a curiosity of sorts to feel similar energies of one of his kin in what should have been so simple a request.

And though the future was their purview, and the past this to traverse at whim, he used both, to try to understand why something as simple as a request would set whole galaxies to shaking. He sought the future and found it a mirk; he sought the past and found it an agony. Acceptance or refusal, there was no clarity of responding to the overt request, never mind the monstrosity of what was being unasked. The cause and effect of anything was giving him a headache. So Celebi broke protocols, the “appear with a flash of light and do his things and leave immediately” act, and that whole world near quivered at his continued presence and indecision. 

And he hated that too.

Lifting a claw in a near universal motion of “give me a moment”, he drifted fist left, then right, drifting on air and motes of displaced time, while he thought. And wrangled with a headache of legendary proportions. The quagmire of what was overtly asked was bad, even thinking about the _maybes_ associated with the unacknowledged scaled pain up to migraine levels and made agony comingle with nausea, which was a whole other bundle of problems and perhaps a theological perplexity in certain circles. Deciding this might be beyond him, he let his gaze and head roll up, casting thoughts amongst his kin. Apathy from many, indifference was a norm though; it was what _wasn’t_ a norm that was shocking _. Hate_ , rumbling roars that would bring ruination if their bearers were set before this being, the birds of Kanto and Johto were particularly vocal. More worrying was the curiosity from the more destructive of his kin. And… utterly afield, from a different dimension that barely abutted this one, giggles. Phionie was getting a belly rub from its trainer this time of day it seemed.

Well _that_ was useful, and gave him an avenue to cause one agony to dissipate. Rolling his eyes, Celebi eased the infantile pokemon out of this gathering of the minds.

Celebi tried another slant, the tried and true “ _who wants this problem, because it’s a likely world ender if done wrong!_ ” Normally the more elder Legendries would cue up to resolve it. Arceus was particularly famous, passing judgments and the lot, ripping humans favored or despised from the maw of their patron or attacking legendries. There were whole theological discourses on that. And a bitter hatred between Him and many of the weaker Legends because of the previous high handed treatment.

And Arceus, despite being called upon, He was silent, a new norm since the shenanigans with those humans in Sinnoh which was worrying.

More worrying was Xerneas’ enthusiastic approval and petition to get involved, the Great Healer near prancing in place despite being continents away. A restless healer was always an ominous one, considering he was set to balance out Yveltal. His rebirth may grant one mortal eternal life, but as for the rest about its chosen, it would be purge and reshaping of a region, and more to avoid more cosmic shifting than anything Celebi eased the pair out. Sensing Yvetal’s relief as warm citrus syrup on the back of his tongue, the utter relief of not getting sucked into that again, and an enthusiasm for sleeping another millennia all but guaranteed…

Then there was nothing save a smoky after taste and those two were gone.

The bird of Kanto and two thirds of the hounds of Johto were railing. Near audible from here. They’d suffered at this one’s hands, immensely, and curiously the firebrand Entei was quiet among the cacophony. When pressed with a mental nudge images flicked behind Celebi’s eyes. A confused and confusing red haired child kin to this one yet not knowing. Suffering, and R’s, human trials and failing and rising again. The taming then murdering the world about them, and then it being reclaimed. A man seeking to ascend on the backs of dragons only to tear it all down. Small creatures in icy cages and things that moved that shouldn’t. Sifting through the baffling input Celebi winced, _why_ Entei insisted on watching over these humans so was baffling. They were miniscule, only earning their acclaim when they ascended to a Legend’s sight and spoke the right words, made the right sacrifices, and gathered their hard earned boons. Celebi sought the important, and found nothing save the small, only impressive in its scope when you took a step back to admire it whole destructive wheel…

The cycle felt... familiar, and Celebi considered the weary, exhausted, being before him with something like respect. How he’d aligned all these little things to make the very material world shiver was impressive.

 _And thus, you find the point yet don’t grasp its complexities_. Entei’s thought was bitter and hot, rot burning, disappointed perhaps as he ever was since his rebirth. Then there was nothing from him, and the hate of the other hounds was enough that Celebi eased them out of the link, promising vague things, of simulating judgments for sins to smooth ruffled hackles and feathers though their feelings were… for him at least, quite alien.

But it was a stance of those never wronged and assured of their immunity to find such things baffling.

Sylvian face twitching, with a leafy rustle because it was more leaf than flesh most days, Celebi looked down at the black clad… thing… human… looked up. It was seeping its misery, it’s pain and suffering and dying all about the grove, and some primal part itched at him to cure the obvious and send it on its way, headaches be hung.

But this felt… heavier than that. Though baffling Entei’s round about accusation, that this one had caused agonies to world and its kin because of something in the past hung heavy over the entity meant to be histories keeper. And he tried to look, a quick glance of meeting the creature’s eyes and found more of the madness Entei loved so and without the fire hound Celebi had no means to understand what he was seeing _at all_.

Save the red head, the confused and confusing, had been part and parcel to this.

Perhaps, in some way, he could be part of undoing this, of making sure this… whatever it was… didn’t happen. A headache not confronted the, deflected into the morass of alternative universes which was not Celebi’s domain and thus not his responsibility. Celebi brightened at such, smiled, and considered another complexity. The birds and hounds of Johto and Kanto had demanded judgment and Arceus was… to put it mildly… sulking about Shinnoh. 

Well, let it not be said that a Legendary did not have options, or allies.

 _Zekrom, Reshiam, Jirachi… if you have a moment please?_ He called, and then lowing his gaze he met the creature’s gaze, or would have had it not done the inglorious thing of trying to die. Slumping over, clutching its side, hacking and wheezing, and bleeding from its mouth with every exhale no less. Celebi wrinkled his small face in mild nausea at the _red_ that spread before the thing, from and exhale that had drawn from the stomach and the ruination in its mass and gone _up_. Suffice to say his flowers and grass were liberally colored with the dying thing’s fluids and it was choking besides.

Well, it nothing else the sense of the thing dying brought the called three over in a hurry, though they remained unseen they were seeing, and bemused.

Jirachi, agonizingly young, though not as young as the pampered water type a few dimensions over gasped in shock, nearly appearing no less.

“ _Aren’t you going to heal them_?”

The star shaped creature used the wrong word there, them instead of an it. Someone was going to have to point out the error, but the thing was dying so now might not be the best time. They did not, Arceus knew, need another Entei on their hands, much less one with a shrill voice to better rail about injustice and compassion and what not that Entei’d been fixated on for centuries.

 _“Yes,”_ Celebi promised. _“But it’s a bit more… bigger than that.”_

“ _There is no path for this one…”_

_“It’s rejected all paths, sheering through nature and order, leaving nothing save ruination…”_

Really, why he’d involved the Tao duo was a bit beyond him, save besides Entei they had the most involvement with humans, and there’d been a request of some type of judgment so it’d felt like two stones at once...

Without some of the others though actually making a trial for the dying thing to suffer through and thus seek repentance was impossible, also unhinged by the fact the dying thing was… well dying. But having the fundamental makers of balance, with the sheer power of wishes being granted and distorted turn by turn, with a healthy dose of time to stabilize it… there could be a facsimile of reality crafted. Thus the birds and hounds could be appeased, the thing would cease dying, and perhaps it would provide some… understanding on Entei’s curious attachment to these short lived things. 

Furthermore it would serve as an example for Jirachi, why such an attachment was foolhardy and best discarded.

All in all it seemed a benefit for them all.

And unwilling to take the time to actually say such he pressed the idea and a few thoughts of how to make a facsimile of reality at them. They could sculpt it on familiar paths, something that the dying knew and was familiar and wheel in the red haired thing besides. After all what was divine judgment without a slant of unfairness and the innocent being swept up in it?

That last thought he shielded from Jirachi however, layering his sending to the star child with curiosity of how the two who were bound by blood react to a reunion, save for the younger to be from a different time, because the heart wound had something to do with the present and thus the present could easily be set back to a simpler time for the one, this easing the complexities of their interactions. Which was something Celebi could do _quite_ easily and it would lead to a fuller healing for one and all.

Their response was expected, the duo were intrigued. They’d be the makers of the material, using their paths and patterns to sustain both beings and a world about them, there was some appeal in the complexity, and while not bouncing with enthusiasm they agreed. As for the youngest, there was a familiar rush of enthusiasm, for being able to grant so many wonderful wishes that do healing, and wasn’t Celebi so nice for letting him dabble outside his domain for even a little and…

And if he were doing anything wrong Celebi might have felt guilt for his lie. Instead he smiled wider, then floated down, not touching the blood and matter but nearly. He thought the suggestion of tipping the things head up gently and thus immaterial sprung into being and did so. Such was the nature of psychics, the violet hue to their existence, the material folding, and willpower rather than wishes being the driving force. The creature’s scrunched up face twisted to something like neutral, and it breathed, and moaned, opening glassy eyes in response to the no temperature touch.

“ _You’ll have your healings, and wonders_ ,” Celebi spoke, mind to mind, miming a tone and pitch he’d heard Arceus used time and time again. Ignoring the fragmentation of this things mind as its suffering cut a saw blade over its comprehension. Even if it didn’t remember when it got wherever it was going, it would remember when it got there eventually, which would serve. “ _And the thing you lost, the thing that you ripped lives apart for and torn apart world, you’ll have that too, eventually, but there will be trials. Fail those and you and your…_ ” What did humans call their offspring? He flounder a moment, then decided on a reasonable sounding term. “ _You and your spawn will be reunited so far as the roads set before out-_ “ and the Duo preened, “- _are trod and their challenges met, for both of you.”_

Because there must be a slant of unfairness, and curiously, the creature jarred to pseudo life as allusions were realized. It stiffened, angered, lips pealing back in a snarl that‘d make lesser things flinch. Even its dying tremors -because it was dying, and the efforts of emoting were carrying it of too fast for further speeches and dictates, oh well- seemed ominous, and not in the way one thought of dying tremors of ominous.

It was like the earth, it’s tremors before spitting fire and spite to incinerate whole countries or smother all life in its dark fisted avalanches.

Despite himself, Celebi shifted his toes up a hair further from the earth below.

“You leave my Son, out of this you son of a bitch.”

Clearly the creature had no idea of scope or even build of Legends if it were talking about that. Physically or otherwise. The thing set a hand to its belt and with some shaking there was light, a purple lesser being, of poison and earth, took in the sight of Him, and it’s trainer (as all bound things thought of their bindings) and drew all the wrong conclusions. The punch was easily stopped; thickening air to nullify velocity was a hatchlings ploy. Spines and clenched forepaws stilled in solid air an inch from his face, the spines angled to take his eyes had the blow completed, Celebi noted mildly, thoughts detached in his own head. Above, not beyond, just lingering, the Tao watched and Jirachi hummed anxiety.

“ _He doesn’t sound very happy_.” The star child noted, worried. “ _And his friends sound scared_.”

Before the Sylvian god could reply, or think to ask about the curious plural, one answer came in fast and hard. Something white and fast smashed into his back. Again, it took minimal effort to stop the attack, but the thing had drawn blood with its fangs quick enough for there to be an impact. The Bite stung something fierce, and its claws were wrapped in inky blackness of spite. Even as he wrapped it in azure binds, gently showing his superiority, the thing swung at him, hissing its name like a battle cry.

 _“Jirachi.”_ Teeth clenched, headache back and back worse, Celebi glowered at the thing that fearlessly met his spite for spite, labored breathing and agony obvious and adding an edge to its animosity that set the Legend’s back stalks to twine. “ _Why don’t you get the things… ah… spawn_. _Wish it here_?”

“ _Alright…_ ”

“ _Then,_ ” unseen behind him, the Tao loomed, eyes bright with internal vistas and paths and patterns they were going to set, and by setting this thing on them it would right a wrong they were sure of it. “ _We’ll get started, and this thing… and it’s pets-”_

“Persian!”

“Kiing!”

The profanities were untranslatable to any tongue save intent, which promised maiming as a start and scaled up quickly. The Nidoking was promising to snap his wings and toss it into a puddle of acid. Then to prove its point it let it’s maw went wide, dripping venom on the earth and making the ground sizzle firelessly as it died.

 _“-can come along with it_.”

When the star child had shimmered out of the present moment with a flash of golden light Celebi made similar binds that bound the feline and bound both creatures the same. Then he got to healing, because the sacrifices had been made and the location and time were right, and he was obligated to do so because of such. And in the back of his head, as he pulled back from flashing teeth as the cat tried to bite him again, he could hear Entei, which was insane as Entei was not present. He had been out of the mental link for ages now. Recalling he could pull the feline back Celebi did so, sparing himself a look of cowardice and a Bite all at once. He approached the hateful creature and met it’s black pit eyes with eternal patience and exasperation.

“ _You are making this a **very** healing difficult_.”

“Then leave me _for dead_.”

Repudiating a blessing asked? It baffled Celebi, and the duo above stilled in a stupefied wonder. There was a reason, a path, a route, and the efforts for healing had been made. What madness would lead to it refusing now, so close to death even?

Then it recalled, when the attack started, the words that had triggered this insanity.

Spawn…

Clearly it was the wrong word, and perhaps he should apologize, but then on second thought Celebi figured the creature’s insanity was catchy, because Celebi would have sworn on Arceus’ name he could hear Entei.

And Entei’s voice was melding with the present.

The unhealed things fury, repudiating him and his “damned healing” in a wild desperation to extricate his spawn which he’d clearly realized was going to be judged unjustly. The bound creature’s yowls for a Legend’s blood, for him imprisoning them though their present shackles were more impressive than his idle stilling of their attacks, was another layer. He’d shake those off, Celebi decided. Set them, one and all before the red lines of a pokeball had bound their matter to this… creature’s… side, and see how it went. It’d be a curiosity appeased. Freed, they’d leave, surly. He’d set the spawns creatures similarly free, it’d be a lesson for them all.

And in the back of his head, not bound to him by psychic energies and therefore not real, Entei was laughing uproariously and calling him a fool for trying Arceus’s work when the world was beyond such work and didn’t need it any more.

To spite them all, the memory of Entei’s opinion post Shinnoh and the utter ingratitude for his… _their_ efforts, Celebi decided to bring the lot, the bound, and the one baring this thing’s blood, and the bloody ingrate dying thing, the deepest, surest, healing he could muster. 

They’d be grateful to him then, all of them, and he’d prove Entei wrong and show Jirachi he was right and what the right way to deal with these lesser things was.

All would be right with the world then, and that’d be the best healing of all.

And above, beyond the Tao Duo, and the returning Jirachi with its baffled child attachment, the cosmic unnamed pressures stirred and writhed.

In preparation of what was to come, as they were the most powerful and would reach to change and shape, even the cosmos must brace for such, Celebi would say, to assure the Legends and himself that all was well.

The feeling it invoked, in the primal depth where instinct rested and thus he being beyond such never delved, was that prickly uncertainty of coming lighting, the stroke before storm and torrent, the static before impact and burning.

And it was a torrent and torment. When the boy Jirachi brought realized who he was before and what was happening he’d protested, that’s how it started. It ended in a mad attempt to flee, in fighting many of the thing’s ‘mon and the smaller thing’s ‘mon and half his clearing was torn up, and iced and poisoned beyond recall until time was turned back and the pristine past replaced the torn up present. Celebi seethed, then with a gesture he forced the whole lot into slumber and shuffled them into their budding world and its paths with extreme pleasure. But not before de-aging and defanging the lot of them and then splitting the lot up, more to spite their insistence of staying close and trying to flee together more than anything reasonable


	5. Giovanni, reflections and opening moves

He’d expected trials, a mix match of old mythologies cobbled together to be an agony and to awaken thrust into the thick of it.

What he did not expect to find was himself both younger and healthier than he’d been in years. Feeling about him, he gripped the soft sheets tossed over him, pushed them down and struggled towards up. Weakness, not of a sickness slant but perhaps shock, stopped his rise. So he lay on his back, panting, the splash of waves behind prodding him enough to fight this fey fatigue and hold onto wakefulness. It was the sheer inconsistency of this moment and before... A before, when he’d been silenced, and stilled (and he’d expected to be killed) there’d been no ocean near about to hear. Memories, a creeping sense of _something wrong_ was pushed aside by the familiar sensation of something small on the bed moving towards him.

He forced his eyes open, trying to assimilate this present from a mad past, that’d been… what, a few hours ago? A glance to the side showed him a round clock and the time, and a further glance about the room found the lot dark and likely alone. No Legends stood over him to begin his torment. On the other hand, heart quickening in realization, he could not see Silver. He swore, shaking his head to beat back the grogginess, an understandable status considering his previous state of near death and being thrown into a battle while dying. But that was neither here nor now, so he absently bundled the fabric about him he sat up slowly. Wood floors, emptiness, and open places was his first impression. That and that the room had a low roof, near touching close though he was sitting up on a bed. Reaching back he braced himself on the corner, wooden walls, sun warmed though the sun wasn’t set to rise for at least three hours, dug into his back, this he was propped up and able to confirm, it was only himself and the small guest on his bed, no others were in this room. Caution stilled him calling out, that and nausea. There were sliding doors to his left, the sound where the sea was loudest… and as for the thing on the bed, it sunk its suckers into the fabric and had risen with him. While lacking many distinctive features, being rounded and more nose and beady eyes than anything else, the familiar, if irritated, features of a weedle greeted him.

Looking into those beady eyes that were glaring up at him myopically Giovanni _did_ swear. He was clearly not the only one made younger, but recalling that frantic battle, those last moments. 

When the battle ended, the frantic span when Nidoking had been thrown aside by a psychic blast, Persian forced to slumber mid swing, in that moment they’d lost their main front fighters. Silver’s Ursula was pulled away, wrangling with a beast more smoke then substance because it and its twin were approaching, malice obvious. The bear spitting hyper beams, taking its stand between the Rocket and original trainer, charring the earth about it with the excess heat of each beam. His boy’s Murkrow wheeling above them, spite and dark bolts trailing about it. Bolts of purest nightshade flew from the avian that was trying to offer what protective cover he could, Beedrill darting about the black bird, tossing poisoned needles and swiping at anything that dared float too close. But Celebie’s double team melded with a substitute made a small swarm of pseudo look alike that could take some damage to pull off their defenders from above. Both flyers were slowing down, not falling from the sky level of exhaustion yet, but Giovanni had Beedril’s pokeball in hand just in case. He spared what attention he could from verbally herding Rhydon about the field to keep tabs on the flyers. The earth type’s main efforts in the combat was ripped up trees and boulders and hurling them at whatever Legendary he could. Celebi, tossed them back with bursts of psychic energy. Twisting their trajectory to hit the other ‘mon, one near hit had devolved into Sneasal tossing back a snowball in irritation at Rhydon, then twisting about to ice beam another damned Celebi look alike. Another toss was deflected into some small floating yellow thing, likely another legendary that none of the combatants had a chance to do more than glance at. Save Silver, who’d taken a moment to huff out a laugh, then scramble to avoid the searing heat of sunlight channeled into a killing force via a solar beam. 

Giovanni had found a pose similar to standing, more slumped than anything else, on a downed tree ice slicked. He had gripped the bark, panting out orders, clutching a wounded side, gun long spent, trying to find an out, any out for his Son in this fight gone mad. Despite its docile appearance Celebi was a hellish advisory, and his Son was too much like his father in one way. Refusing to get out of the scrum, taking up knife and slashing at any legendary who dared get too close.

One of the Tao Duo had had to withdraw to heal shot out fangs, so Giovanni technically shouldn’t be complaining. But having to bark at Silver to pull back, and which way, because the boy got too hyper focused on getting a hit in… It told many tales at once. 

Leafy face twisting in spite, the creature floated back, dispelling pseudo twins to focus better on regenerating two of its fingers, green ichor streaming from the cut, Silver’s replying smile was tight and bitter, he set his knife perhaps to throw, but the intercepting slash of a feathered fore limb of a white beast stilled the attempt, and Silver was scrabbling back from the beast of an alien region.

More to spite the bastard than anything else, Giovanni threw a pokeball, and while the catch was obviously not going to hold, it interrupted the floating Sylvain creature, stopping it from regrowing the fingers that it’d tried to grab Silver with. It reappeared in a flash of red light, at devices failure, but the unspoken threat of capture stilled all the other Legendaries from approaching. Silver, scrambling along the battle field, took the reprieve with both hands. He snapped up his Sneasal, who on the cusp of exhaustive collapse was tossing up ice walls between his trainer and the reappearing Legend. The first buckled, avoiding shattering by a slivers width, the second blow took it down. And ice, like glass, was shrapnel then thrown amongst them. A snarl and snap of his fingers and Rhydon slammed his paws into the earth, a rock tomb snapping into being before both trainers. A cry from above, an aborted squawk warned of one of the fliers going down. Silver poked about the impromptu shield to recall his bird, then Sneasel, ever the wiser of the pair, drew him down and the second wave of ice hailed down.

Alone, one of the last pokemon standing, Beedrill swirled about ruination, of a nature trapped in artificial winter, ripped up and slathered with poison, and amongst the destruction, unable to see any friendly trainer, he had panicked. Triggering it’s own megaevolution, his new and old limbs became a swirling blur, splaying the clearing and enemies in sheets of poison, trying, might and main to take out Celebi with its multitude of stingers and malice.

Staggering from sanctuary, eyes for the sky, Giovanni squinted and seeing the familiar flicker of displaced space and time, ever a precursor of teleportation, snarled.

“Beedrill, at your six o clock, poison jab!”

It was enough, and ironically the grass psychic time master did not counter an order steeped in the terms of Its own domain. Master of time indeed. The creature shuddered, and pales as poison took hold, the following order to use Venoshock, to stab another venom, one that would make mere discomfort escalate to agony, did not need to be said. Sliding his stinger out, Beedrill buzzed his hate, even as his trainer, with shaking hands, withdrew the rest of his downed team and called out to Silver.

They needed to get out of here, now, and scooping up his shaking Sneasel, Silver stood, meaning to follow.

Then the birds of another region descended, mostly mist and smoke, personification of forces that Giovanni had found impractical and thus had dismissed. Regardless of their symbolism, their physical presence was enough to still any retreat, or rescue.

Silver’s horror of them was a mix of old fears and new, the realization of just how deep these water were in was settling in to roost.

Giovanni, knowing already how this was going to go, called out, and Rhydon, ever loyal, responded. Sweeping in low and fast, one avian behemoth staggered under the charged low kick to the back of his knees, courtesy of a being made of stone and malice. One mega punch up, and in an area that’d normally incapitate any normal creature was enough to stupefy a Legend it seemed. The surprise attack was enough to jar Silver out of his stupor, and he did run, but not fast enough. But there wasn’t a “fast enough” when time was involved. The ground with its venom slicks and tears and wounds, the world turned sepia, color bleaching towards near tan but never quite touching the hue, then everything stopped.

Flexing regrown hand, shrouded in an aura of gold akin to the sun’s light, but again, not quite touching, all hung suspended in that moment and the thing holding them made the very motes of existence of shake in its wraith.

Dying he might be, but Giovanni Sakaki was not a man to be cowed. Even by apocalyptic shows of power… And one leveled against a captive audience, more wounded and comatose than awake and aware, it was pathetic. He’d spat such at the things feet when it demanded his gratitude, his adoration, and pleas for clemency.

Interpol, assassins, his own flesh and blood the Madam, had held similar power over him ages ago, world ending seeming feats, or resources beyond his ken and pointed towards his destruction. He’d not bowed to them, he’d now bow to a _thing_ that with a few more moments and a bit more luck and he’d of had bound under his hand obeying his commands and utterly helpless to do anything about it.

He’d expected to find himself in a hell kin place for defiance of this scope; his only regret was in doing this he’d dragged Silver into it all accidental, and he resolved, meeting those glimmering green eyes of a Legend he’d live long enough to get his Son out of this. Thus waking, in an alien place that seemed vaguely familiar, with his de-aged Beedrill as a Weedle was, to put it mildly, far afield from the expected.

It took effort, a near fall, but he was up, standing, sleeping fabrics wrapped about his midsection, because he was clearly only in his boxers and boxes stood in furniture’s steed and he was not going to root through the lot unless he wanted to pass out over them. It was in walking, in his gait, those first few steps, that made it crystal clear that while this body was his own it was as divorced from his old as Weedle was from his Beedrill state.

A few steps he found a door, sliding it aside reveled a hall, a few near silent steps, his shoulder attachment twisting about to better watch the walls of the hall, though the one other door enroute was small enough to likely be a closet, and they found a nook more than a room. Still it had the prerequisite things, toilet, sink, light, a largish mirror.

He attended the second to last and under the florescent light glared blearily at his reflection. Weedle followed suit and chirred bloody murder at himself while Giovanni took in the features of a face he only recalled vaguely and had seen in pictures a few times. Well before the time he’d been the focus of the media for his philanthropic front, before the forced studio shoots that was part and parcel of owning a gym… Reaching out, Giovanni brushed his fingers over the mirror, it was cold, near icy, and a tap set the echoes of impact in his fingers, and both… both felt wrong. A little coolness to the glass would be understood, even with the walls as warm as they were. The thickness of the thing when he tapped it, and the most jarring fact, that it had rippled when it should have stayed still under the tap… were all tells.

Nestled against his pulse, Weedle shivered, understanding soul deep the wrongness of everything about him. Reaching down, Giovani twisted the tap, and after a moment, as if the plumbing were trying to contemplate its own purpose only to recall that it was to run… it ran, the water cold, which was understandable considering the way he’d twisted the handle, but reaching down, pulling the door of the cabinet under the sink back, a glance down confirmed another oddity and reaffirmed his fears.

There were no pipes.

This place, despite seeming realness, was somehow divorced from reality, a facsimile then. Giovanni closed the doors, steadying himself on the sink and ran his hands under the facet. The following motions, of cleaning, smoothing hair, wrangling that cowlick over his ear since his hair was too long, Giovanni sighed. He’d spent a span of his adolescent experimenting with his hair, angling for it to be longer. He’d wanted to mimic the rebels of his time but his first foray in wrangling with tangles and having to do so much to keep it styled as he’d been cursed with genes that kept his hair straight and would permit nothing else unless he’d slathered it unless he’d just woken up and the alteration he acquired made him look a fool and his hair had enough give to accommodate foolishness… Well it had been enough to get him to the barber not post haste, but he’d held out a year and a half before deciding enough was enough. As it was he was without product and the resulting cowlick from bad hair choices decades ago took more time than it should to tame. Still it stayed, somewhat, and Weedle was only a bit damp at efforts end.

At the shrilled complaint against is ear Giovanni grimaced, and well it wasn’t prefect but he could glare at the reflection just so Weedle could feel it.

“You could easily have climbed down.” The Rocket drawled. Then killing water hunted about, finding another cabinet imbedded in the wall besides the walk in shower… All pseudo wood and a bit dingy besides, but clean. He sullied one towel in drying, swiping the excess off the bug type, and then tossing the lot in a basket by the door; hopefully it was for clothes pick up, but if it wasn’t… Well it wasn’t his problem.

God above, he was _eighteen_ again. On second thought, the Rocket conceded with a grimace, considering his hair style, he was likely _seventeen_ since he’d gotten himself to a saner hair length mere days before he’d gotten his drivers license _at_ eighteen. Not wanting the stigma of having a bad haircut on a piece of identification he’d have to cart about for years and stand in obscenely long lines to remedy if he hadn’t liked it, Giovanni had decided simple and tenable was preferred to the rebel look and had lopped the lot all off in a fit of last minute introspection. Even with Weedle about his neck, like a bit of misplaced jewelry, poison point adding the lot a more modern punk look, the Rocket groaned at that thought. Memories of so many bad choices, minor annoyances in the greater scope but still… The things he’d done and worn flashed behind his eyes.

Curious how in getting so many basic things wrong, the plumbing, the mirror, and what not, Celebi could still capture and inflict adolescent mortification on a man well beyond the time frame for such foolishness.

Not even legally an adult… There was a horror to that. A muffled fear. He wasn’t an adult, and while the hellish matriarch who’d ruled his childhood was very much dead, he’d put her in the sod and had Nidoking spray the shallow grave in acid to make sure there was no coming back for that bitch, old anxiety of not being master of his own fate flickered about his mind and made a familiar acidic taste flood his mouth…

The last time he’d had such a visceral reaction had been the night Silver’d been snatched away by a Legend’s talons and both he and Beedrill had been helpless to stop it. It’d become a near companion in the following years, when he’d ripped Kanto to the bed rock looking and looking, then it’d been buried. Near forgotten in the rage that had taken hold in grief’s place. It’d shifted, from living in terror to becoming a terror, setting first Kanto, then Johto’s criminal worlds under his boot while sifting through data and legends and trying to twist impossibility to his own needs because he’d been damned losing his son, and his agony was such all would share in it.

And they had, whole countries, for years and years, and only by chance he’d stumbled upon his child, and he’d gained him only to be repudiated, but he’d had what was his once, he’d not lose the boy again. Even when his health had failed, Giovanni’s efforts to combat what had been a Legend inflicted (and smoke exacerbated) illness were always second place to keeping surveillance on Silver.

Another glance, face smoothed of frown lines by time’s reversal, not even the first hinting of silver about his brows, Giovanni ran a hand over his cheek, under his square jaw the bristles were coming but they were minimal and hadn’t really required more than a cursory effort until his early twenties, but that’d been the curse of the men in his family. While hardly baby faced, the angles of his face gave him a more mischievous slant than sinister, his nose a bit of a stereotype of his Italian heritage had been a mockery point for his Kantonian associates when he’d started out. He’d used dark garbs with a cut to make his shoulders seem broader until he’d grown into his own strength. Establishing a repute for cruelty to bolster what his physic could not had served him well. Dark clothes and brutal efficiency had carried him through the Mob’s ranks until he’d overthrown the Madam and inherited what was meant to be his since birth.

Flicking the light switch off, Giovanni staggered his way back to the bedroom, it took a little hunting, but another light switch and the room was lit. As he’d expected there were boxes all about, none labeled, and piled in random corners with no rhyme or reason. Steeling himself, the sooner he got through this the sooner he could start to look for Silver, Giovanni pulled open the first. They weren’t taped, or bound, and effort started until the bedding was dug up then abandoned. The first box seemed filled with sentimental trinkets, an attendance award of all things, papers that looked suitable for a school child to hoard. That he set aside, garnering a name “Moon” off the lot, and nothing else of real import. A few more boxes down and he found… well _clothes_ were a generous descriptor; he pulled out and piled the more somber, form covering,and baggy of the lot to try on later. Moon, appeared to be a lanky boy and they might fit, if not he was going to have to break into someone’s house and steel something better fitting, but that could wait. The slew of vibrant bandanas (the white he’d salvaged, plans to slitting the lot into bandages as needed filling his mind as he stored those) and shorts so short boxers could be seen under them went back into the pile with extreme prejudice. As did the collection of hats, while he would occasionally tolerate wearing a fedora there were standards. The bright red monstrosities with pokeballs marching across them was such he had half a mind to tell Nidoking to incinerate the lot. But recalling his Beedrill, who was a Weedle and an uncaptured one at that who’d crawled to his head and drowsed amongst his hair, Giovanni bit his tongue and settled for pushing the rummaged clothing box to the back of the pile he was working on. The knickknack box was sturdy enough to be sat upon, so he did so, digging in another box. His finds, keeps as it were, were laid on the bed, a blue backpack emptied of more sentimental things was set to be filled with what he’d tolerate taking a corner, some keys and small monies found in pants pockets keeping it company.

Small teeth nipped his ear and Giovanni turned, the now awake Weedle mutely warning and looking up from his work he found an unfamiliar woman looking down at him from the doorway. And again, it was wrong, the angle of her regard didn’t meet his eyes. It was like she was looking at someone both familiar and a bit smaller.

“Moon, sweetheart, do you know what time it is? Go back to bed. I promised we’d set you up for your journey in the morning and while it’s technically morning right now…”

Her skin was a warm near coca, the accent alien to him, who lived in a world of people speaking wrong. But it was curiously wronger, not Kantoian, or Johotian, the fluid Kalosian didn’t match her inflections and by no means was she Italian. Her hair was black, long and curled without being coiled, her eyes akin to his in hue but not depth, she smiled at him, utterly familiar. This was familiar to her, he was, and he didn’t know who the hell she was.

Freezing, if only for a moment, Giovanni considered and weighed his options. Exhaustion against expected, against seeming stability. Then decided, trying for charming, and smiling, Weedle flattening down, tail tapping against his skull, waiting a word or head tip to tell him to attack.

And in that moment, he seemingly conceded, nodded, moved towards the bed and she left, content, not even bothering to turn off the light as she left.

Giovanni waited, one minute, two, five… then to the creature atop his head.

“Lock the door.”

And it was, covered in webbing in moments. Satisfied the Rocket went back to packing, but killed the light, he’d found a flashlight and it would serve for the rest of his work. He’d be well and truly gone in less than an hour, and that’d be infinitely safer than this pseudo familial unit he’d been thrust into.

Once gone he’d figure out what he could, get Silver, then get them the hell out of this… pretend never Neverland.


	6. Giovanni:  A thought

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, so for any unfamiliar with the MANGA 'verse Gio he's basically hinted at to be a "Child of Viridian Forest" like Lance is, this comes with a few supernatural perks that he abuses throughout this chapter but work differently from Lance's... which considering their wildly differing personalities makes sense.. and for the sake of fairness here's the layout of how it works and contrasts.
> 
> 1) An ability to project his Aura, because of his personality it serves as a repel like ability as it translates to a death threat to weaker 'mon.  
> (This contrast with Lance's soothing/taming capabilities)
> 
> 2) The ability to dominate/see through a 'mons eyes for short burst.  
> (Lance shows this trick off in the manga)
> 
> 3) Near Psychic level empathy and healing for his established team  
> (Lance, being less selfish towards 'mon can do this with all 'mon, captured, his, or otherwise.)

He’d traveled the tall grass without a ‘mon, to the more unobservant. To those who drew close they might have seen the gleam of a Weedle horn, as the bug was wrapped around his head like a crown, but considering the matter hours, it was unlikely. Unless there was a chronic insomniac roaming outside of the towns bounds with better night vision than his own. Also, considering this part of the world, rustic with a tropic slant, the lighting was a near null and void occurrence as artificial illumination hadn’t clearly caught on. With sunrise being a few hours away it was pitch black, with sketchy lines of illumination being the byproduct of star light and moon light.

An utterly primitive mode of operation, one he’d approve if he were working his way up, but as he was traveling from place to place… the more naturalistic slant of this region was more irritant than asset.

To avoid injury he kept to the flattest spans of the path he could feel, pulling out his stolen flashlight when the ground felt different or when something hissed a battle cry at him that seemed near. Weedle would rise from his hair, follow the slant of light with his myopic eyes, and spit strings of webbing at whatever challenged them, and then Giovanni would run for it. Sometimes quitting path to hare into pseudo grasslands alongside the beaten path until he bypassed some invisible territory marker and the hostile ‘mon wandered off and left the road uncontested. Once he was sure that whatever he’d irritated had calmed he would reclaim the track, shuffle form pebbly grasses to beat down dirt and a glance up would confirm his direction, that he was going away from the town with its expectant family all artificial, and he’d retake the path and pick his way, light off, spare batteries a comforting weight in his pocket.

Suffice to say the trek was slow going.

This region, whatever it was, was _crawling_ with rodents and birds…

Familiar facsimiles of familiar ‘mon. 

The rattata alone were a near horror, swollen and discolored. He’d never allow Persian to hunt them least she sicken and die on the poisoned mice. As for the avian he’d spied (woken with his too bright light) they were an unholy marriage of an idea of a spearow, blackened and squared, with a needle for a beak. Beyond bobbing their motions were stiff and square and the mental comparison to a mobile, jerky, sewing machine had been… unavoidable.

Still… each encounter with a ‘mon was an opportunity for Weedle to practice his string shot. The yellow worm’s aim had suffered from loss of sight and regression of prowess. Still both could be reclaimed by effort, and he’d spun it that way. Assuring that if the worm stayed with him he’d see it speedily evolved, back to his old strength as fast as possible, but not painlessly.

Let it not be said that Giovanni Sakaki was a liar.

There would be pain, agony, defeat and wins. They would have to revisit old habits and training, as a gym leader he had many tricks to expedite things, but there _would_ be blood and pain to this road. Battle was not bloodless after all.

A chitter and rise, fore paws brushing together soundlessly, had been the worm’s response, that and a head tip a sharp flick up and a sense of smoldering malice. Giovanni did not need to extend is Gifts far to feel the utter hate, the primal itch, to poison and sow disease, on the one who’d wrong them all. And in that he and the worm were remarkably the same.

“Then we’re agreed.”

He missed the low buzz, the thrumb of wings and hiss of poison that’d been agreement before. This replacement noise, a high pitched churr, grated on his expectations. But then his own voice had cracked once already. A trip, an instinctual grunt that’d cracked as he half rose to see what had happened… The shock of such wrongness had frozen him, he’d knelt in sod, among the tall grass, staring blankly at the flashlight. Disbelief rooting him in place, he knew he looked different, but to have something so basic as his _voice_ not be settled… 

For one minute, two… then he shook his head and forced himself to standing. Once assured of his feet he reached out, up, assured Weedle was secure, he’d staggered after the light. A cursory sweep of illumination behind him assured it was only a branch that’d undone him. Satisfied, Giovanni killed the light and some time in walking some more.

Never mind the pain.

He’d demanded of them as he would demand of himself, as it’d always been. He’d ordered his Weedle to be prepared to bleed, he’d not belittle it by bemoaning a bit of soreness and stiffness that took his knees as he continued the hike from… wherever he started to whatever lay ahead.

At his back his pack of purloined materials swayed and rattled. It wasn’t much, just clothes wrapped around necessities. Medicines, bandages, some rope snapped up from some yard, a kitchen knife, two water canisters, one he’d looped thorough his belt and both he filled. Small electronics had been wrapped in plastic bags, their batteries yanked their power cords nipped as well. Those he’d liquidate when he encountered some criminal element or a shady pawn shop owner once he had reset them to the proper settings. He’d taken what cloths of Moon’s that fit, never mind style, and the fact the lot was mainly oversized and meant to be grown into it’d barely covered him, clashed, and rode up at awkward moments, still he endured, would endure until he got to a real town. He’d also taken a potion from the brat Moon’s home, and a break in at a neighbor’s had granted him another. Recognizing the tourist trap slant of the buildings in the middle of seeming no-where (there hadn’t been a traffic light, an electric light beyond porch lights, no cars, no roads for cars, as far as he could see) he ascribed his starting point as some half assed “get in touch with nature” townhouses and decided away up the road might avail him to something… _anything_ … familiar. Even a convenience store, a pay phone, he could figure out where he was and call whatever cell was established here and arrange pick up…

Or he would have had he…. been himself, at full prowess. As he was now… He could wiggle in as a recruit if he got desperate enough he supposed. It’d be curious to see the bastardization of what Rocket was under the regard of a Legend that hadn’t gotten basic plumbing right.

Or ‘mon behaviors… because angry ‘mon did not stop chasing you down the road, freeze, and then waddle back to their starting point of the chase like nothing was wrong as soon as you left their field of sight. Also the surplus of rodents would have made this place a hot bed of disease and there’d be no bird, their eggs likley eaten mere minutes after laying considering the rat to bird ratio he was seeing.

As of desperation, he wasn’t, not yet. He broke open then deposited the boy’s emboar bank on his way out, leaving a fake trail into the grass with the shards and some small change before pocketing the bulk. A back track and use of one of Weedle’s thorny poison needles had allotted him a fragile lock pick that he hadn’t needed. Since these fools kept their doors unlocked he’d learned after tinkering with the lock and wondering why there was no resistance. It’d creaked open at his touch, and after an awkward moment where bug and man stared at each other Giovanni pulled it closed and taken a side window. 

Just to be sure.

A quick hunt through the house next to his false get away point had netted him a wallet. He’d had Weedle stick the empty wallet to a tree’s upper branches on besides the wreckage of his false trial, then cut through the town a final time, taking to roofs, before a mere five roofs later he’d run out and had to shimmy down a palm tree and take to what rocky ground he could find to better hide his tracks.

It’d give a police growlithe some pause, the many paths, and perhaps that time could translate to distance.

And it had.

He’d taken the roads as part of his cover. An exuberant trainer with his starting ‘mon up too early for his own good and wanting to just go. It’d explain his haste at least and the hour. To uphold that fiction he held to the expected routes that were so over used they’d pounded the grass flat and made sterile, flyaway, dirt pathways. He’d walked and plotted, stopping once to drink and divest the purloined technology of its tracking software. He’d indulged a quick flip thorough the personal files, photos of beaches were predominant, and answered an old idle question of his. What people in idyll scenery laden places take pictures of to inspire them? The answer: their own back yards. And.. clearly Moon had been a simple soul. The boy’d been entranced with a Krabby, he’d followed some poor water type for… by the time stamp- for t _wo hours_ \- Giovanni snorted and flipped through over fifty pictures of the beleaguered water type and feeling a bit of second hand pity for the poor thing. It was clearly intent on running and per overuse of the flash likely couldn’t figure out where the water line was and thus couldn’t get away.

Ironically a flip through the contacts had shown that some sea side eatery (that DELIVERED FOOD CHEAP!!1!) per the notes in the phone, had been in the top five most reached out to. MOM, had been the boy’s first (understandable from the seeming age of the child). And a Prof/Uncle K. had been a second.

At finding he was… in possession of… possessing, replacing, Giovanni wasn’t sure of the mechanics, but to be in close proximity with someone who… per the norm he’d observed… was likely to be a _dex holder_. He’d laughed long and hard at that. His mirth made Weedle roll off his head and onto his shoulder to have a better look at what was funny. The bug hissed irritation at the contact screen and then arched and chittered, not amused in the slightest.

As for Giovanni, it took a few moments, but he dimmed his mirth. If the fates... or _paths_ perhaps considering one of his captors was the Tao Duo… held true…. than this _Moon_ likely had as close a bond with the regions Professor as the trio of irritants from Kanto had had with that charlatan, Oak.

Well it’d make the man someone to be avoided then. A quick look at the contacts details gave him a picture to go by and Giovanni memorized the man’s features in a few moments, instructed a now curious Weedle to do the same, and once the bug’s small face showed disinterest the man flipped through the settings to begin a complete system wipe. Done, he dismembered the tech and set it in the proper place in his packs. He stood, rolling his shoulders in warning, and Weedle, ever observant, slithered up the side of his head to find his preferred perch. Leg suckers pulling on his trainer’s ear on the way up.

“Really, _must_ you?”

Hair chewing and a chirrup was the worm’s response, that and a humming of amusement and contentment in being warm and sheltered.

“My hair is _not_ that thick.” Giovanni hissed up at the yellow bug.

A bite turned into a tug, and little suckers wheeled up enough strands for the lot to be curled around the bug type in a pseudo blanket. In seeking comfort Weedle pushed a lot of it into Giovanni’s eyes. Only the worry of leaving an obscene amount of physical evidence for whatever passed as this Region’s police force kept him from digging out the knife from his packs and sheering the lot off then and there.

“Let go, now.”

A snore was Weelde’s reply, and a squirmed snuggle and…

And having Silver back in his life, even in so minutely a forum-

 _Frantic moments, battles where he’d failed the shield him to keep him close but each one of those moments were precious, they’d been the spring board for him to memorize the boy’s growth, to immortalize his child’s journey from a boy to a young man if only in his own mind_ …

-had softened him. He did not shake the creature awake as he would have. Demanding the ‘mon stay alert as he was. Giovanni checked the seal on the water bottle once more and then clipped it in place. Small motions were made to assure none of the diseased rats of the Region had gotten into his things, then he walked, taking paths, alone for all intents and purposes. He took a slower pace than before, head tipped just so, so Weedle would not tumble off.

An hour passed, perhaps two, his legs burned as he’d quit flat plains waist high with grass in parts for an incline. The grass was scragglier, and the rats were less plentiful. What birds eyed his head for a free meal decided it wasn’t worth it when he snarled at them, using the Gifts of the Forest to push out a fraction of his hostility to the world. It made a near visible stain on the Aura about him, and to that the most meek and wild… they fled such certain death. 

Above, the sky was steeling into a false dawn and in response he’d pocketed his flashlight as there was enough light to see by, for a while at least. The over large thing poking out of his pocket, near dragged his pants down. He planned to use the tool as a bludgeon if something attacked him, find a smaller, lighter, model in a nearby town. Because there had to be a nearby town, sooner rather than later. His dignity wasn’t going to tolerate much more of this. 

He walked, unknowingly the epitome of style. One hand was fisted on his pants waist band, holding the lot up, praying he wouldn’t have to run and bemused by how it’d been the trend of various Kantoian youth to walk around like this.

They were all fools, and a shame Red had not been so encumbered by such foolishness, it’d made Silph a victory for Rocket, surely.

There were rocks, and most besides incline and the better views was the trees of a familiar slant. They deviated from the nearly branchless white birch and palm trees that’d peppered the path back. The new flora was growing darker in bark and thicker and with wider, familiar branches spread wide. It wasn’t Viridian, but it was comforting and close... His scalp itched as the bug squirmed to wakefulness, and to that Giovanni huffed. He was tired now, but hadn’t stopped, wouldn’t until he crested the hill he was taking, as he’d promised himself _two_ hills back. Just one more. Just to get a good bearing, then he’d find a place to take a longer break, perhaps a nap if Weedle’s endurance held... 

And at the crest of the hill he stopped, sat, pulling his pack into his lap and curling about it for a moment, willing the ache in his legs and feet to die down. The mini grass lands were behind him and he’d no intent to go back. Their nonsensical fences that traced paths perpendicular to the road. They rambled nowhere, to edges and aborted lines and never enclosed anything. The careless could follow them and fall from the budding cliffs and sunk in beaches below and…. And there were no houses, they did not mark property lines, or battle zones, or campsites, or anything. They were just there, here and there, and were behind him and thus irrelevant though by the angle of the itch Weedle was staring at them.

“The Legendries are freaking morons, they can’t get a damned road right, or a property line right.” Giovanni Sakaki declared to no one in particular. Taking a swig of lukewarm water, his reward for two hills climbed in near pitch black darkness, he seethed and worried in equal measure. He still wasn’t quite sure where “here” was. The boy’s phone had been bereft of actual useful data and was without an attendant data plan to look anything up with. The neighbor’s ID in the wallet had been too damaged to read and the signs about the… living complex… had been non-existent.

Then he froze, water at his lips, as he rewound what he said to what he had been thinking. Then he truly swore, or tried, the words didn’t quite match up right with what he was thinking.

“When I get out of here, I’m catching and killing all of them.” Giovanni swore, and that, at least, wasn’t censored.

He rested, as long as he dared, and when the light fled the sky only to be reborn again in an hours span, well Giovanni stood and took to the road in darkness. One last descent before ascent, with steps no less, was a promise of civilization. That and the sputtering light of a touch of some type at the next hills peak. But… for now that wasn’t his goal. Rather a patch of forest, with true green trees, those he marked as his destination. If he hurried he’d reach the tree line before true sun rise and settle within the first visage of familiar… Setting camp, he hadn’t had to in years, cars and hotels being a thing. But memory of how to do so felt touching close, and considering his supplies was a few blankets and some stolen rope… He’d temporize a tent and...

Well he’d see many things. This region’s police in action considering his crimes. Their competence considering his efforts to mislead… Perhaps even that little town on the hill’s gym leader would be roped into helping find the “troubled youth” that had “runaway”. All would be educational, all could be used. He could twist the lot of them under his thumb with just the right lies. A night terror, (something with wings, his heart would stutter in recalled second hand terror just at the thought of a winged horror, he’d have to fake so little then) had made him hare out in the middle of the night. Some burglar followed on his heels. No, he hadn’t seen anyone, officer…. He’d met Weedle on the road, they’d hit it off (or rather Weedle hit many things, the slew of bound ‘mon marking his path told tales and he could use that too).

It would be too easy. 

Perhaps even the region’s professor would be involved in such a hunt, he might even be able to… pardon the pun…. wheedle a ‘dex out of the man. Or, perhaps not. Considering the man’s “familial” slant, but then, memory teased and bitter recollection met. Giovanni had an easy out, simplicity itself if he really wanted to get the tech from the man legally and his flight drew suspicion. 

“Moon” could easily have partial amnesia. Some wound garnered when running, some trauma from an assault nearly happening… The encounter that was the trigger need not be iron clad.

It’d not be the first time Giovanni was on the run, and the more time he spent away from the authorities would make his story unassailable, especially with “Moon’s” phone appearing on some black market or other.

In the interim, he’d train Weedle up. Get his starting ‘mon to a reasonable power and proper form, and then plan from there. He was a Gym Leader after all, and such came with perks of knowing certain ins and outs of training that were normally not disclosed to the public.

For example, despite his youngest days as a bug catcher being far behind him and the propaganda that branch of trainers had tried to drill into him… weedle were omnivores, _not_ herbivores, and while that fact might seem… minor in the grand scheme of things feeding a weedle a protein heavy diet set their various venom sacks to hyper production. Part to quicken digestion as there was some overlap in stomach acid and venom production, and part to fuel hostility. Poison, like Dark, was not a Type that stayed in one region of a ‘mon. Which, in short, equaled more kills, and more experience, if one had a stomach for gore that was.

And Giovanni had no qualms of gore, or “precious ‘mon lives lost”, he’d do what he needed to get his team to power and break out of this prison of Legendary make.

While Weedle, went through the various changes needed to regain his proper form, Giovanni would be kept busy in other ways. His… Gift… would allow him to peruse the city through borrowed eyes, the ‘mon closest to town would be attuned to what was right and wasn’t ad it’d be less effort to garner information from sensational dross. He could swindle memories, and spy with forms that weren’t his own for short bursts. Enough to see if the road ahead would be as… limited… as the path behind.

Around the quarter mark of the hill, where the light of twin torches gleamed bright and he could see there was no man below it keeping watch, only homes, with open doors to let in the night air…. To such temptations Giovanni turned on his heel, and broke off of the road. Above, the sky was lightening toward true dawn, and he’d best be never have been here. So he wasn’t. Cutting across grass Giovanni broke into a staggering run, cutting off chittering rat ‘mon with a growled order of string shot to muzzle the irate loudmouths his steps disturbed. He ran until the path was beyond his sight and the twinned branches of the familiar, Kantonian trees, wound tight enough to block the coming sun’s light, and in that comforting gloom Weedle perked up, rounded nose twitching, and stirring his trainer’s hair his exhales were so hard. The creature panted, recalling kills his body had made, and would likely make again.

And to that, though winded and weary, Giovanni smiled, tipping his head. And that was enough to make Weedle slide down. Find perch on the Kantoian man’s shoulder and reared, eyes flicking over the branches, horned head gleaming with a rush of venom.

“Smelling a metapod?”

Little stub legged suckers rubbed together in anticipation, the green, calcified, worms were near delicacies back home. Almost hunted to extinction around Viridian, particularly it’s gym, and it was no mystery as to why.

Letting out a tired chuckle, Giovanni pulled out the flashlight and flicked the device on, something fast and small spooked at his feet, but that maybe rat was irrelevant. Giovanni canted the light up and Weedle hummed anticipation at his side, hunger and longing to be as he was would be all the spurs Giovanni would need. He’d not have to coax or manipulate, because at his core, Beedril was a very easy to please and eager to please creature.

“Let’s go make a killing, then.” Giovanni purred, carrying them deeper in this fringe forest, all miniature and wound about a civilization, that, for its falsity and origins, would better to be burned to the ground.

It was a thought, and the how’s and when’s would be something to be mulled over as he lead Weedle to it’s first of many kills.


	7. Coda; or in less fancy speach... a place to put story notes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well after a fruitless span of trying to get things to xfer into Omega Ruby and a run through some FAQs... I'm can't xfer Silvers team where it needs to be... Alright, so I am going to have to re haul everything for the gaming element, I probably will drop the parallel play throughs and just do Gios team with Silvers on stand by for "trades" and let it go at that... Mildly disappointed as I liked the idea of basing a fic off of something I actually played... oh well... 
> 
> Goes back to drawing board...

Timeline... clarification and notes As Gio and Silver are both in different time lines (for now)this is going to be my dumping ground for plot points and timeline clarificatinos as I don't want to get me confused....

Time lines

**Battle occurs in soulsilver manga, Celibi separates Gio and Silver and de-evolves the teams.**

Chapter 2 and 3

Silver wakes in starting town in omega (as Brandon), assist in unpacking, finds phone talks to Gio.

(Gio is presently in the future and gives assist in how to find Sneasal during his call)

After call Silver goes out to get Sneasal and saves Elm.

Chapter 4-8 

Gio wakes in starting town in Pokemon Moon (as moon). Clarifies rest of battle that happened in chapter one/prologue. Finds weedle, realizes situation, escapes from edge of Iki town (mom’s house) outskirts in the middle of night. He hikes to Iki town proper and camps out in the forest below the main town and starts process to force evolve Weedle into Beedril.

During last night there Silver calls him (Future Silver, first visit to Rustboro) he’s upset about his RIVAL looking like a carbon copy of Green and establish they’ve talked before, enough for him to be familiar and remind Gio of the rules. Both acknowledge/comprehend the time lag between them better for it and Silver warns that catching ‘mon, isn’t working.

After calming Silver down and learning about the Mask a bit Gio decides to break into IKI town proper, get supplies and directions, and makes plans to start digging into the regions Legends, as soon as he’s done burying the bodies of the various common/starter ‘mon he’s butchered and fed to kakuna to gorge him into his next evolution.

Chapter 9 and up, outline and calls.

Silver’s experiences olddale and petalburg…. 

Special scene notes plot points and phone calls:

Encounters Brandon’s father, who seems disinterested in him. Encounters Wally (friendly towards quiet boy). RIVAL/Green encounter? Cut off Silver section in forest area beyond Petalburg?

Plays with phone and accidentally calls Giovanni, gets frantic battle sounds (end chapter battle? Gym battle? Undecided, leave vague), hangs up, tries again. When he asks what that was about Giovanni has no clue (different timeline… ) Giovanni is glad “Silver knew to call” and makes surface talk, establishing call rules.

_Always state what your doing, and where you’re at. Difficulties so they can hammer out solutions during calls. Information about region.. Gio establishes he knows about Hoeen a little, not horridly fond of it (no proper ground trainer, too much water) lets slip he’s a gym leader “back home”._

(Gio is set some time after Iki break and enter… is talking to a Lisslie who is attached to him post her being saved… explains what she looks like, keeps chatter light and ongoing to sooth Silver… Who is shocked to realize that he likes being talked to like this, kept in the know, and sharing information.)

Call ends with Silver deciding not to push past Oddale and to ask people around for information and train Sneasal up a bit, says will call when he gets to next town at latest unless he finds something really useful..

Or needs to talk… Gio chimes in, Silver plays with phone… then walked up to pokecenter tech and asks her to turn off his phone.

Is called by Giovanni, who sounds tired when he speaks, post Trainers school event, decides he’s never sending his kid to this place, it’s ran by mankeys. He’s found his “second” ‘mon, a cubone with a bizarre move layout/nature lay out. He asks if it’s Silver’s, Silver says no… decides to check his “box” at the center and finds a Zubat. Decides to go to new town (old a bust, can’t catch mon, show this).

Silver is also keeping tabs with Birch.

Teams:

As of chapter 8

Silver has Sneasal, 

moves known,

icepunch,

reflect,

scratch

pursuit

Silver has a zubat

_Special move set zubat.._.

Giovanni has a Kakuna

moves known

electroweb

iron defense

bug bite

Giovanni has a cubone

moves known

protect

parish song

misc others


	8. Giovanni:  Making a Killing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: There's a discussion of and acting upon wanton hunting practices and killing for food and sport. It's gory, borderline mature, and I don't shy away from the creepiness of the scene. If that's not your cup of tea and you want to continue this tale anyway just drop me a line and I will forward you a chapter summery with the relevant information. I was going to tab in the flight of the Tikitek scene but considering chapter length I'm going to use it, and the planned stinger, in the next chapter.

**Chapter 6, making a killing.**  
  
 _AN: There's a discussion of and acting upon wanton hunting practices and killing for food and sport. It's gory, borderline mature, and I don't shy away from the creepiness of the scene. If that's not your cup of tea and you want to continue this tale anyway just drop me a line and I will forward you a chapter summery with the relevant information. I was going to tab in the flight of the Tikitek scene but considering chapter length I'm going to use it, and the planned stinger, in the next chapter._  
  
  
He fell into old routes and routines as easy as breathing. Thrashing through screening greenery and thick trees, he’d made a territory in the familiar and been camped a little less than a week. The town’s thick, wooden, walls were one edge, the roads beyond it a taboo and only to be watched form the security of height and sparingly. At night the walls were manned by men and ‘mon who clearly hated their obligation, and to spare them and him he avoided the walls when he can, especially at night, when perversely, the guards were more awake. As it was early morning, with no one about to peer wearily at the gathered dark and bug types and keep them out… Well this span, touching close to civilization, was his until noon. And he’d take advantage of every minute.  
  
Forked stick in hand, he prowled the edges, face still wet from ablutions, hair damp more from water of a pond he’d set camp at than sweat, but if this kept up that’d change and he’d need another bath.  
  
The following thwacks were harder for that realization, and dark forms raced before him, chittering and hissing outrage that he irritated them during their pre noon repast. His goal, and this herded hoard, was a false sun of fool’s gold, tucked back and away, almost lost in the thick green leaves up high. Smacking a bush until an irate bird burst out of it, he hit and dodged, because this one was a fighter. His refusal to back down and continued attacks, drove the avian to linger low and go the right way… Hoping perhaps to duck into another bush that he was unlikely to hit, perhaps holing out form a berry bush with thorns. There were none, save one across a peculiar clearing, and hopefully the prey knew that. If not… Well, he’d likely find it again, and what delusions got you through your day. Satisfied with this batch, he pursued the mess of fleeing shadows. Scaling jog up to a flat out run. Small things fled before him, split off, scattered, but enough went the right way that he felt comfortable haring about, playing bait and baiter all at once. Drawing more ire than prey, and when his tally of “maybe ten” scaled up to “likely thirty” he decided enough was enough, and took a break.  
  
Breathing deep, settling against a tree, shade side favored, he ached and burned in ways that spoke of a pampered state strenuously protesting his exercises. And in this Legends got it wrong again. But he was hardly surprised, they’d made more errors than any and while the world was resolving in ways that made sense, slowly, there were still flaws.  
  
He’d been more muscle and sinew in his youth. Training and hardening his body so it’d not betray him, because everything else would at the crook of the Madam’s manicured finger. A foot and a half before his full growth, hair near down to his hips…. Bean pole… flag pole… had been the kindest jeers he’d had to endure. Reaching up, he raked out tangles with dirty nails, plucking out branches, and then got to braid the lot with one hand, spare flipping water canteen open, he drank and worked, and once done drinking set both hands to tighten the final loop. It’d be loose, and sloppy, but he’d no need to run and with care he’d not have to deal with too many tangles next break.  
  
Weapon of harassment propped besides him, he lingered, focusing on getting his hammering heart to slow down and listened. No sounds from the walls, none from behind. His sport had drawn no attention. As for the previously unwanted attention, his lips quirked, bemused by a resolution decades old…  
  
He’d not have to endure with it for long as he’d had Nidoking and had a shorter temper and a perchance for blood. Something his personal ‘mon had reclaimed, considering the bulk of them were raised to hunt and hunt besides him no less. The first taunt, the first disrespect to what had been dubbed the “pack leader”, had lead to the first snapped neck under the ‘King’s hands. None’d dared breathe a word of disrespect to his face after that.  
  
Calm once more, and though aching not bone weary, he snapped up the branch in aching hands and picked his way back and up. Waving towards that false gold up high, in greeting and warning both. He went up a hill, than down, walls a tan line about the tallest trees, that sunk into insignificance as he neared the hills’ base. Deepening thicket, a marked clutch of trees, the violet spines in their side caught his eye and helped him pick a path the right way least his herding lead him wrong. He heard a sizzled hiss and thud as string shot connected and something was caught and took a bad fall. Sound served as a marker before his eyes adjusted to the near night dark and he could truly see in the deepening gloom.  
  
Descent ending in a bit of a skip, some scree nearly made his walk into a tumble, Giovanni nudged past the last screen, of a clutch of bushes, and came upon the killing box they’d built in bits and pieces.  
  
It wasn’t much. A clutch of trees that’d had their top most branches adjusted so Kakuna could better fit. A clearing all artifice, it’s larger rocks jammed into the spaces between trees in all directions save descent down a particular rocky span. It wasn’t perfect, there were holes, but then he’d had a weedle with a reasonable aim and it seemed a fair risk to take. The weedle had evolved first hunt out and gotten a better aim for being able to see… and what fairness there was to the situation became a farce.  
  
At the base of Kakuna’s perch were many small forms shrouded in white gunk that looked… to the unexperienced… like melted mozzarella, save a bit shinier. The lumps under the deluge of white coating squirmed and cried, many voices, many ‘mon, all making a muffled cacophony at his foot falls.  
  
Perhaps so close to civilization they were partially tamed, assuming human meant savior or at least capture, which would be a round about saving from this slow smothering they faced. The bird from before had gotten this far, caught mid flap it’s limbs were spread and pinned in it’s fall, it’s stick limbs scratching at the sod while it literally dug its own grave. A black swollen rodent squirmed mere steps away, a limp form, more smothered than the most, at clearings edge caught his attention. A familiar stylized tail stuck out, vaguely resembling ruffled lightning, and besides that a small form so enshrouded in semi-liquid goop… Well he could tell whatever it was was writhing and slowing as he watched. There were other forms, other obscured frames, but those were nearest him, and nearest the tree, and thus those that mattered. The fringe could be left to wear themselves out and gathered up when need be.  
  
Tipping his head up Giovanni waved again, lips twitching, and the Kakuna in the trees could see that. Evolution had granted him wider, shaper eyes, as evidenced from the many pinned and bound ‘mon about. There was no trill of acknowledgment, it was impossible in its present confinement, but the bug type was expressive enough to rustle some leaves about him as he rocked on his hard shell. Tossing thrashing stick from one hand to the other, Giovanni stood, baring the pain from each impact because his callouses were gone. Which was wrong, as were so many things in this “healed” body, still he could gain them back with only a little pain.  
  
The bird’s wings were unbroken, it’s beady eyes scrolled up to him as he circled, weapon in hand.  
  
Coherence and minimal damage, it would do for his later plans.  
  
“Pick your breakfast,” He called to the bug, another hiss save on impact something sizzled. Poison needles sunk into the earth, marking the lump, baring that familiar tail. The attachment to that tail squeaked, sparks smothering as they met something uninclined to conduct or burn or twist aside. Squeals turned to coughs as grass and sod caught and the air quality went down.  
  
The lot smoldered now, cause in effect in action.  
  
Well, he’d come prepared, taking and sharpening a rock over breakfast the first day. That was at the roots of Kakuna’s snipping tree and he gathered it up. Double the size of a fist, grey and squared, perhaps the leaving of some cement _something_ that’d broken. Regardless of its origin he’d shaped it and it would serve. Giovanni turned the stone about so edge was facing out, and hefted it in one hand. Then, in his off hand, he swung, setting a stinging blow to the bound creature with that familiar, hated, rodent. It’s riposte was a light show. He stepped back, two quick steps, though one would have been safe. He waited, as the form writhed and wheezed, another stinging strike and the sparks came again, another and they were significantly less. A glow akin to a child’s nightlight rather than nature reformed to malice born whim. A fourth strike garnered him nothing save screams, chittered pleas that set the beast’s around it to a squirming panic. While he could have bludgeoned the thing to death with his impromptu switch… there was no point. And if there was no point then there was no profit.  
  
Setting stick aside, he slid the rock into his pocket and winced as the belt bit back. He’d not do this killing, it was more to another benefit the thing be alive, or at least _dying,_ when the last blow came. And that blow would be best to be the snap of fangs sinking home. A hiss from above, the creak of descent as a string shot was loosed, and wound by mobile mandibles, and a rocking jerk served in leaps place. Kakuna descended in a string of sticky spittle.  
  
“And of course you expect me to carry you the last span, correct?”  
  
The bug swayed, a venomous pendulum near toddler sized, and the impatient swish flick of his squirming as he dangled served answer enough. Threading about the prone, missing the familiar click of his boots… these sneakers near squeaked… Giovanni slid a hand about and under, tilting the creature into the crook of his arm. Fangs worked, unweaving and severing so only the thinnest of threads lingered about the creature’s mouth. Tipping the beast encouraged the yellow bug to spit the last glob to the side. Grip sure, miming old holding patterns first introduced in training classes ages gone, and mastered with practice after, Giovanni took himself and his ‘mon among the smothering.  
  
Beyond, behind walls, a false thunder of drums went up. Whoops and cheers, the fourth since dawn, and the reason as why curiosity had been stirred and made him specifically hunt down a bird for later…. As for now… He lowered his Kakuna before his kill of choice, freeing his rock from his pocket. He’d do one more blow to soften, than the rest would be on the bug. Sifting through loom he picked up… well not his old stick but one long and thick enough to work, he set that atop the still Kakuna and felt those black eyes roll up at him in irritation.  
  
“Unless you want to try to crush the thing under our weight, or we could wait a half hour for you to spit needles and hope one of them poisons the creature than wait another ten minutes for the venom to carry it off….”  
  
All petulant rocking ceased, and black eyes locked on his hand, the creature near humming in impatience and hunger.  
  
Well Giovanni could understand that, he’d only had a few bites of various berries himself as he’d stalked through the woods and Kakuna had had less than that, though this span and it’s mess of pinned ‘mon would serve a day, perhaps two, for food.  
  
Pulling off his shirt, keeping the rock in his hands at all times least something try to attack him in a moment of vulnerability, Giovanni mused on the nightmare of cleaning blood stains. Better to be avoided when he had no access for replacements yet. Folding the fabric absently he tossed it besides him, minding the bodies and figured good enough. Any bloodstains on his pants could likely be passed off as residue from a fall, or hidden be a longer garment, his shoes jointed his shirt after a moment of fussing with the thin strings.  
  
One strike, two handed, over head at full strength. The mid-section of the rodent crackled a mix of breaking bone and discharge, and in that one moment he could feel the frantic, weakening, thrum of the creature’s dying at his hands. A flick of the stick got him to pry the edge of coagulated string shot and charred earth up. He could see the creature’s form, a curled crescent of yellow and widening red. Then a hiss and sizzle as white snapped over the things near liquid midsection, binding to epidermis, a rocking tug from the bug at his side dragged the mess out and eager mandibles worked, wheeling the thing close.  
  
“Easy, you don’t want to fall.”  
  
A hand set to rest to the creature’s back slowed its frantic motions; the prey in grasping range stilled them. He could feel the writhing brittleness, sliding his hands down he considered swells where legs would be, where the flesh stiffened and strained and better braced but the developing form underneath did not burst through. Perhaps tomorrow then. With a pat, minding the oblong swells where wings would be on the creature’s back, he ignored the whimpered and gargles as the pikachu was consumed. The suckling crunches were not a true ‘Bite, but were getting closer… and well there was opportunity abounds. Literally bound all about them.  
  
Recalling elementary lessons, that poison was immune to poison, Giovanni hunted among the masses for a lump of rounded black. A tale tip tipped him off and he didn’t even have to pry more than one string shot lump up. An application of a rock and a bit of leverage and the Rocket returned, another morsel in hand, dazed by a blow to its misshapen head and perhaps sporting a concussion.  
  
“Seconds?”  
  
It was easier to make out the developing, thickening, lines of legs to be as the bug reached and wobbled at him. Still he spared his beast too much effort, kneeling before Kakuna and passing up the black rat so they rested in the straining, growing, forelimbs. They didn’t crest that line, burst past chitin and into being, and still they reached for him. Giovanni watched as the food was mainly consumed, partially dissolved, the rat never waking, the previous meal more smear than anything. With a nod Giovanni meant to rise, but a strained twitch caused the man to linger. It didn’t seem right for evolution, and while the bites were more sure they hadn’t been quite right yet. So he waited, as black eyes scrolled up to him, then his bloodied hands, and again the semifluid line between existing and not strained.  
  
It was a mute “I want” more than anything, recalling him to another’s mute motions, small hands, reaching, pointing….  
  
Part in whim, part in melancholy, Giovanni offered his hands. The same mandibles that had torn flesh from bone, ground bone into powder via pressure and acid and sucked the semiliquid melding of the two, slid over his skin. The lower jaw first braced, then sucked in as the upper combed over his knuckles. Nipping a path down his skin, Kahkuna only to applied force once. When his trainer’s attention wandered. The nibble left a reddening span, about a pin prick’s width as a prompt… And to such Giovanni turned the limbs over, letting the creature ghost fangs over his palms and worry about his left thumb that’d a crusting of red near the nail.  
  
“Done?”  
  
A wobble as a nod, and the shell smoothed, writhing’s of rebirth done for now it seemed.  
  
“Good,” Sliding his fingers over the creature’s domed head, Giovanni left his slightly damp let hand scroll a few circles, thinking and soothing all at once. “Up to first watch?”  
  
His ears ached for not hearing a confirming buzz. The vibration of brushing wings had been the only sounds over various camp outs, stake outs, and the like. The ascent and scrape of stingers as the beast would look about for perch and settle, to such a lack Giovanni ached. But, as he turned on his heel, first to reacquire garb he’d quit, than to hunt among the bound for the bird, he consoled himself. It’d only be thus for a little while longer. Spearing the edge of the hardening attack, he slid the branch under and around the bird, pushing until it nudged up to, and then stuck against, the other side of the splattered attack.  
  
It made a crude rucksack, and after a shake to make sure the lot was secure he carried the bound bird back.  
  
It shrieked bloody murder when it saw the killing ground before what normally would be it’s prey, clearly not liking the idea of being on the other side of the food chain. Kakuna, ever a black hole in this stage, perked up, and wiggled in anticipation. A snort and glare stilled the mute begging for _thirds_ , and Giovanni set the feathered bundle before the bug with a glare that prevented all bites from occurring. While there might have been some merit in intimidating and breaking the avian Giovanni set bird before his bug and snapped his fingers. One of the two looked up; anticipation of a different slant flickering in the black of those partially evolved eyes.  
  
“Once it stills, you’re breaking it out and letting it go.” Daring, he drew the creature close, set it between him and Kakuna even as he set his back against the bug’s. Facing away from the gore and suffering of the uneaten Giovanni slid one hand against the edge of the bird’s face. While physical contact wasn’t… necessary… it helped him focus. The thing was hyperventilating at his touch, wanting to turn its head and goggle at its impeding death. He braced the bird, stilled all motion, making the bird meet his own black eyes. His heart quickened in sympathy of the birds panic, he breathed slow and deep, and beady eyes glazed, mirroring his own detachment. Talking was an effort, still Giovanni was not one to not push through. “Once it leaves… You’re in charge of waking me if… if...”  
  
Another rub, from exposed crown to beak, the bird’s eyes slid shut.  
  
In empathy all unwanted the Rocket’s world went black in turn, the last ocular sensation he’d experience before his awareness was washed away in a flood of smallness and terror. In that moment, when his nerves sang and set his skin, borrowed and other, to crawling at the confinement about it was a nudge of a steel hard shell leaning against his back, a wordless reassurance, that for now, at his weakest, he had one loyal ‘mon to guard his back.  
  
Then his eyes opened, against his will, and they weren’t his. They were sharp and skewed, meant for distance and height. The world was a wash of color and screams and sick slick wrapped about his frame… There was nothing but terror, until a terror descended in food’s form, hauling him up and turning him over and over in a bloody maw and against impossible ridges until the monster (prey) held a maw full of binding, blinding white.  
  
Fangs clicked, then it was motion, spinning, another mouthful of binds, another snip-snip of mandibles scissoring through the lot one slow minute at a time.  
  
Save there no minutes, merely echoes of old flight, and the impulse of flight, and an eternity of pain/fear/panic that was the present and future.  
  
In this world of sensation unwanted, in thoughts never his, it was all Giovanni Sakaki could do not to drown and remain still, waiting as his Kakuna cut him ( _not him, never him_ ) free.


	9. Giovanni:  Free of charge

**AN: Same warnings as last chapter**

It was like viewing the world through a kaleidoscope. All colors and motion swirling around and around, the world was a whirlwind, all touching close yet never meant to be held. 

It was the flying that did it. The steady pull of an earth eager to reclaim, the ache of muscle and minuscule things that were set to defy that omniscient pull. Vision was surreal thing, as I the whole world was millimeters in his face but he was spared vision’s blurring and thus thrust face first into a world near microscopically detailed. He had to indulge distance, a mental step back as well as arm… wing… and lung burning heights so he felt far enough to actually understand what he was seeing down below. Distance was a thing more felt than seen. Air disturbance wrapped about him like a cloak, pain and building fatigue an assurance that the world would not get too close without time enough for him to break the binds between himself and this ‘mon. His curiosity was a spur, a direction, and he was flown over the towering wooden span that’d hid him in a faux forest’s shadows. Little more than a line when viewed from an avian’s back, this bird mused on bark textures and durability of the wall’s barked side before something small and squirming beyond it made it cant it’s gaze beyond the thought of shelter.

Hunger… and something writing and stinging, kept the wings wide, rather than folding for a descent and dive.

While the bird nattered on about prey (and it’s new budding phobia) Giovanni counted the rectangular, steep tipped things strewn about a flattened, grassless span, that wound through the lot like a tan river. Braying, barking things, mercifully distant, waddled amongst the two legged beasts. The two legged creatures were bright chested, dark crested, without wings, without feathers. A short one hopped out of one of the not-tree shelters and the creature’s head looked akin to a a mass of fluff and frizz ideal for nesting.. Wings twitched, thoughts on nesting, thoughts of rest, flooded his borrowed mind….

Mentally shaking his head, so much so he did so physically and felt the stinging smack of too long locks, Giovanni took a mental step back from the bird and it’s cloying, feathered headed, purple prose. He tallied buildings of this one road town, less than ten, and the people below were curiously darker skinned than those in Kanto, many sporting dark brown or black hair rather than the tye dye madness that was so popular in his home region. As the path before, and the clutch of houses where he’d started, there were no electrical lights. Dampened tiki torches before… homes…. Were a norm. And there were four interspaced at the towns sole, four way, intersection. Down lead out, towards him, up lead to a clearing, all greenery stamped out, a raised wooden span ran before a large building that may, perhaps, be a gym leader’s abode. It looked large enough to house a man and a few large ‘mon and that marked it different from the more cozy clutch of two rooms and loosely fenced yards that did not sport gates to give them entrances and exits.

To put it mildly the legends were slow studies... 

There’d be precious few supplies here. One building was an outlier, cement with electric lights even, the universal symbol of a pokecenter hung over its door like a beacon of promise. But beyond that… and the fact that there were ‘mon, alien growlithe kin, tan rather than orange… there were precious few consolations. He’d set bird to the steepest heights it could tolerate, and freezing partaken with each breath mixed with burning in every motion. And a peculiar second hand light headedness. Still, he could see, and this distance was such it near mirrored human vision limits, so he was comfortable despite the bird’s keen discomfort. Further up, beyond wooden stage cum battle field, was a path, it rose out of forests, atop hills so steep they seemed verdant mountains. The town was connected to rise and it’s attachment of a winding trail by a pin prick of a bridge, beyond that… Well he’d not fly too far, there was a thickening of the grasses though about the paths sides that could mask larger ‘mon and since there was no smog, no lights, or even a grey glint of paved paths Giovanni let himself comb over the other cardinal directions. Mainly wall, or greenery so far and long the lot bored him and the bird who could be bored and suffer all at once.

Then he looked south, past his descending forest cul-de-sack screened in pseudo mountain’s shadow. Past the tip tops of color that meant houses he’d started from and avoided. The shore was visible at this angle, a blue line in the distance, and as he looked at it with borrowed eyes, something white and artificial cut across the water.

Profanities came out as raspy clicked chirps, though the thin air might have had something to do with the unmusical slant of the bird’s chirping.

He near smashed his head into Kakuna’s shell, an odd bleed over from the impulse of frustration equating attack, which meant to peck… Only familiarity with that effect kept him from braining himself on his own ‘mon’s steel hard hide.

Thoughts swirled through his head, and for the intention the bird descended, the hard lines of familiar blurring into shapes and closeness that wasn’t. He was in a Region, and not some outlier never land that didn’t have trainers, or centers. While this place didn’t have shops he could make use of the center and perhaps the clothes lines of a careless stranger if they left their things out too long.

He’d also not be able to sell his stolen phone yet, there wasn’t anything resembling an open air market much less a shop, and his frustration again came as chirps. Wings tucked close, toes curling to mirror the hold on a thin rod below… Giovanni started at seeing a bird before him, glossy and thing and right there…. And a peck, all unintended, proved the lot plastic, made it cracked, and released a deluge of black. It took effort, to recall the idea of plate, to realize that it was not a strange avian but his borrowed he was looking at via a reflective surface… Then the bird was eating out of it’s bird feeder and the Rocket’s stomach churned in complaint even as his tongue was awash in chalky, half dried seeds that were more dust than substance.

The unexperienced would have let it go at that… The sensations were unpleasant, the bird barely listening, grounded. There was little point to holding on to such an avian. 

A false thunder, the sixth since waking a bit after dawn, made muscles that weren’t his quiver, and the bird took to flight, not out of fear, it ached to hop down towards a nearby bush, but it went up, towards the cacophony because Giovanni demanded it. His will was a stinging strike, and the bird whined a protest as height beyond its norm was taken up in short bobbing flaps.

Will was one thing, but the avian was playing out, barely any food, a cursed fast metabolism, no water, and a body wide bruising, it’d been a wonder it’d last so long.

Well it only need last a little longer, until curiosity was satisfied, and so it ascended, even as a drummer, sticks in hand, perched upon the raised edge of the battle stage and clicked his sticks together, three quick taps, then warning done he hammered a rapid fortissimo against a long, wide drum before him.

The effect of the ruckus was immediate. The sound catching something underneath the rise, and in turn echoed, distorted, twisting into a pseudo thunder. And the youngest were wheeled up by the elders, upon raised porches, those walking about scrambled to the tame ascent of their front doors and ‘mon were recalled, the streets emptying in mere moments. 

And the wisdom, the why, took only a moment to be seen. From every bush, every patch of grass, boiling form under the base of the houses closest to the walls, rat’s swirled out of shade and shadows to run screaming down the streets. Rhythm slowed, the strikes interspaced with the click of wood striking wood as drumsticks were struck in drums steed. Once, twice, and on the third all sound ceased, the mice were but a memory save a few bewildered squeaks as the slowest crawled down the paths. 

And _this_ pestilence hot spot in the making was going to be where he had to go to get food beyond what he killed and what few berries he recognized as safe, he’d have to go there to get his Kakuna healed up, to get _directions_ …. Lips twisting into a sneer, Giovanni sunk into the familiar weigh at his back, and seethed, the bird and it’s sensations were like the ghost of flames heat, the link was akin to raking fingers over smoke of a dying fire and expecting warmth.

Snatching at the intangible, worn, thin thing in the back of his head he made is last call simple, a compulsion, that once met he assured the bird and him would be quits. That sparked enthusiasm, and a drunk seeming flight from town to his present abode. Assured it was coming Giovanni opened his eyes, his own and let himself fall, Kakuna an off gold lump besides him. He indulged laziness, near drowsing, the bird was a mental tab in his head, drawing close but not too close, figuring he’d better rest later the Rocket pushed off the wet earth and groaned as he ached in ways that weren’t wholly human, residue of a forced bond and driving a ‘mon against its will. Luckily the pain hadn’t scaled to migraine territory, a mercy that in turn inspired him to be merciful.

“Get three branches and break it so the tips of two are forked and the last one sharp. I’m going to get tinder and a rock and we’ll have a fire set up in no time.”

Standing, staggering really, the Rocket raked hands over his frame and its edges. Leaves and loom scraped off of him at the motion, his hair near shed its weight in plant kin fuzz. He was going to be a walking grass stain if he stayed here much longer.

Well post breakfast, his, they’d move on, after a bath.

“Don’t poison the tips.”

Wood clattered, another string was shot into loom and dragging began again.

Reclaiming a large stone, near plate sized and tipped sideways that he’d jammed between two nearby trees Giovanni pushed it as far as he could. Once sure that it was tall enough to poke above the grass and far enough not to catch the tree with careful supervision the Rocket began to dig. First to throw away what loom and grass away from the fire to be, least it catch. He continued his labor, hands caking in sod so soft it seemed kin to the loom yet was stickier than clay. Working like an irate, digging, houdour, save altered profanities, not smoke, marred the earth he labored over he managed to straighten the adlibbed heat rock. Sitting back, satisfied, he dug out bits and bobs from his pockets. Shredded threads that’d once been rags, they’d torn when he’d wrapped them around his hands and climbed a particularly steep span that lead to the lake he was camped. Keeping the shreds company were a clutch of twigs from his back pocket, those gathered in his hike before he’d hunted. He stacked the lot, studier tree bits on the edges, near flyaway at the heart, and it made a curious sort of nest if one looked at it just right. Something prodded at his brain, curiosity of an avian slant, a mute, _For me?_

He nudged the eyes back, dimmed the things viewing and dug in his other pocket. Out came a purloined lighter, from a neighbor who smoked, and left his doors unlocked, among other bad habits. In moments he had the sparks lit and the small fire fed and glimmering. An off orange glow that added a hellish illumination if one risked smoke inhalation to indulge the melodramatic and posing such a look would entail.

Wingbeats made him turn, near zigzagging, each wingbeat more droop than ascent, the bird approached, and to that Giovanni lifted one arm, hand fisted, elbow braced.

Tamed enough to recognize the offer of a perch, the bird swept close, small claws scratching off some of the muck on his forearm. He let it linger, one moment, two. The clatter of a tree branch, pointed and unpoisoned, made the Rocket move and he did so, slowly. Sliding a finger under the creature’s head, a bit of a scratch to the lot to broadcast his intent. To affection anticipated the bird tipped it’s head up further, offering a better petting of the crest and jaw.

Beak pointed skyward, eyes scrunched, the bird waited.

Throat perfectly bared.

Sliding his knife from where he’d slipped it on his belt before hunt’s start, Giovanni then swung, and more by luck than premeditation the bird and blow were angled away so the resulting blood splatter didn’t make a mess of his clothes. Still he shook the little body off, glad he’d rolled the sleeves back and the bird had perched as far away from his torso as it had, and gave it more room to fall as he stepped back.

Explaining grass stains away was one thing, blood trails were another, and not a trial he wanted to deal with. Tossing the blade after the bird, to avoid being dripped on, Giovanni gathered handful of wood larger than the starting fluff, and fed the flames. Leaving the body bleed out a bit before he pulled off his shirt and got to plucking than cleaning his kill. The juicer organs he dropped off with Kakuna, after combing the lot inexpertly for poison sacks. Finding none he made his offering, and passed the gore to Kakuna who tipped and warped the edges of his shell to better cradle the snack. Leaving the bug to it, sticks in hand, Giovanni went back to his breakfast. He was a bit critical of the carrion even as he worked the stick through it, he’d had smaller torchik at froufrou restaurants, but right now this… whatever it was… would serve. Setting the meager meat to roast over the fire and adlibbed spit, Giovanni sat before it letting it simmer as he rolled if over the fires.

Of course, it was when he was busy feeding the fire that he heard it. An insistent mechanical whine. He let the phone do so, not caring for the implications, just weary and wanting to eat but not trusting the rawness to be burnt away even though it smelled done. When it rang again, six rings before giving up… then did so immediately after… Well something was wrong, and then the wrongness of a dismembered phone ringing struck though is miasma of exhaustion and got him standing... Staggering towards the packs.

“You’re hearing that?” He confirmed, and Kakuna rocked back and forth, an ascent.

“Shit…” Mind flicking with dire scenarios, some elite hacker of the Kanto government tracing him, some bizarre charging mechanism alien as this world thus making his obscuring efforts moot (never mind he’d tested the phone after dismembering it for that very scenario) Giovanni dug though the side packs, the phone, still dismembered, battery sitting benignly besides it in a different plastic baggie besides the phone no less, was glowing and humming, the name across it a mix of kanji, numbers, and pound signs that was utterly nonsensical.

More on whim than anything else he flipped it open, listened, and curiously he could hear… a child sobbing. The voice was familiar yet not… Wrong yet unnamed. Giovanni’s black eyes went distant as he mentally went through years and memories, of hearing children complain mainly, but a few had cried in their loss and none of them were quite like this one… and there was something about this one’s voice that screamed urgency, that set a fission of anxiety down his back.

“Moon?” A croak, pained, “It’s.. it’s me… Silver…”

And the Rocket reached out to a tree to brace himself, heart feeling it was sure to stop.

When he didn’t drop over and die, the lot proved itself to by hyperbole, but not one by much. This, he learned, was a special type of damnation he faced. To not recognize you own son’s voice. To not know it was him until he spoke to you, begging you recall him.

“Can you… are you…”

Giovanni’s legs shook, he eased down to the forest floor before him in slow, careful, stages. Something burned but he hardly cared.

“Moon?”

“I’m…” _Not him, your father_ … His thoughts ran the gauntlet of cliché to truth, and he cradled the device, offering it a tenderness that he could not offer the speaker on the other line. Taking a breath, he let it out, forced out a strangled. “Here. I’m here.”

Not there, but that would be remedied, as soon as could be. He looked among the small bodies, weighing their frames and forms, and perhaps sensing the slant of his thoughts Kakuna quivered under his trainer’s steady regard.

“I’m here.” Giovanni murmured.. “Now, what’s wrong? Tell me and I’ll get to fixing it.”

A huff… near snort… then that too young voice (barely taken, the closest to recollection, a hair older than that last day) softened, mirth taking the edge of pain out of the words, if only a little. “You can’t fix it… this… you don’t even remember _me_ , do you?”

To such a bald accusation Giovanni huffed an irritated laugh, figured at… what five.. six?... Silver was seeing right through him. His meal burning, he waved at Kakuna who dampened the fire with a shot. He’d get sustenance form what he dared, then move on.

Progress had become more important than basic nutrition; if push came to shove he could just assault some camp or other and take their food.

Still… as for what Silver said, Giovani let his lips quirk into a small smile, and offered his first truth in what felt like decades.

“Silver, I’d never forget you, no matter what. Now,” standing, heading to damped flames, Giovanni picked at the carrion, grimaced, it was mainly raw, but it’d do. Bracing phone against his cheek by way of a raised shoulder the Rocket picked up his knife and checked the kill. Not a total waste, he worried at slivers, keeping his voice level, least the shaking voice’s owner on the other end of the line spook, and hang up. “Tell me.”

“Only after _you_ tell me what you remember, and what you’re doing, like you said, like you _promised_.”

To that the Rocket barked out a laugh, “Silver,” _Son_ he’d meant to say but hadn’t been able too. He’d make the Legend responsible die, over the course of months for that… for this… They’d of been better off leaving him for dead, but were in turn not the first to make such a mistake, you’d think a personification of time would have his history down better and be more cautious for it. “You’ve a soul of a born business man, with a lead in like that.”

“You said that earlier too.” And there was pride amongst the exhaustion, remembrance…

Which alluded to time perhaps not being as straightforward as it seemed… Still, while that was a peculiar curiosity, it wasn’t important, not yet.

“Are you safe, is it safe to talk?” Giovanni peeled off a strip of meat, set it aside on one hand though the heat stung.

“You said never to call if it wasn’t… And no… I’m not hurt it… I just… I’m in Roboburst… There pokecenter, staying the night in a room by myself. You were right… I got Sneasal…” Tone wavered, there was something to tears in that tidbit. Sucking in a breath, the boy rallied. “Where are you?”

 _Pestilence city, death by black plague central_ … He’d of uttered such if the boy had sounded less fragile and perhaps a bit older. As it was he recalled sight borrowed, he’d spied a sign, and while not reading the whole of it he’d been amused by what he garnered before the featherhead started gorging itself on seeds. “Some spot of questionable civilization called Iki Town.” He perhaps deliberately mispronounced it, making the name sound horridly childish, and that garnered a giggle from the boy. “What’s Hoenn like?”

Familiarity, it was a curious thing considering how little “he knew” still it was a comfort. If utterly unearned. Curious how his simple question wrenched open the flood gates.

“There. Is. Water. _Everywhere_. I’m trying to catch a water type so we can swim around if we need too… But I can’t catch _anything_. My pokeballs just… disappear, or miss, or don’t work. It doesn’t make any sense. And I’m… I think I’m supposed to catch a lot, I’m getting funny looks just for having one ‘mon even though Sneasal’s great and thank you for helping me get her back and…” And piece done, exhaustion won out, and the boy huffed, something creaked, perhaps a bed as the child settled on it. Pokecenter commodities were at best primitive and cheap. “Everyone thinks my name’s Brandon… or Bran-bran… or that stupid trainer from where I started that keeps calling me Big B. She’s _really_ stupid and poses and makes her team do their moves “Beautifully”...” The boy sneered the last, and likely rolled from the ruckus that kicked up. “She’s so stupid… this whole thing’s so stupid…” A sniffle. “Moon?”

Giovanni could have called the child out, on the deflection via deluge, but did not. Picking clean what he guessed was most the meat he could eat; he worked on those few quick bites as his boy’d gone on and on. Done, nearly the same time as his child was, he took the corpse, speared stick and all, to Kakuna who was rocking in enthusiasm at his approach. Offering made, still stabbed, he left Kakuna to pick the stick clean. He’d bury the leftovers once the bug was done, then let the yellow shell murder and gorge on the pinned until he could eat no more, than he’d kill and bury the leftovers and leave what local authorities were about to make what judgments they would.

Iki could be reached by night; with a fully evolved Beedrill getting past the guards would be simplicity itself. He’d take what he could from the fringe houses, one of those had to have a map… and if somehow, someway, they didn’t he’d raid the gym leaders home as a last resort. They had to have a computer, to contact this regions league if nothing else, he’d learn what he could… then he’d go. Where, he wasn’t sure… but he suspected this place’s Legendary might have the keys to get him and Silver out. He’d take it from their poison saturated bodies, and kill any who got in his way besides.

“I’m here… I haven’t left.” Closer to truth, lips tightening as he watched Kakuna rip and tear half cooked flesh and turn the lot to gore. “I’m not leaving, for anything.”

“It’s so _stupid_ …” The confession was a near wail, muffled, but there.

“Silver, it’s not, not if it means this much to you.”

A groan, and he could her sniffles and easily imagine tears, and he ached for that hearing. But could do nothing save listen as the child, _his child_ , wailed. “Why’d the stupid Legends have to make whats-her-name look _just like Green_?”

No child, so young, should know heartbreak so intimately. Yet his did. And there was agony for that. Still, as promised, though the listening was an agony, throwing all his helplessness in his face, Giovanni stayed on the line. Listening and coaxing and offering what poor comfort he could until Silver decided he “probably should go, because it was late,” and “Mask said he shouldn’t use up real peoples time to whine and carry on.” 

Had the Rocket responded to that the phones would have immolated from overuse, or perhaps dealing with the sheer muffled fury that’d be channeled through their lines. As it was, the boy’d wanted to go, all but begged a reprieve. And to that Giovanni folded, after he coaxed a promise, one he’d _supposedly_ done once before. That the boy was to call, next time he was safe, once a day minimum. And more than that if anything went wrong And Silver would call, the boy promised, first thing he work up, right after breakfast, that was sworn up and down in Sneasal’s pokeball like how others swore on their mother’s graves.

Refusing to hyper fixate on that unpleasant analogy, Giovanni listened as his boy hummed and hawed… then whispered. “I… I don’t know how to hang up. I never had a phone before. Last time there was this red dot I tapped. But it’s dark right now…”

A bit of back and forth and the boy’d learned the on off switch at least, and how to tentatively make a call… and then with a beep that might have been accidental, Silver hung up. Giovanni had circled the clearing uncountable amounts of times as the talk worn on, finally setting his back to a sturdy tree and sinking down near the end by Kakuna, who had watched his walk, and the skies, with black pit eyes that glittered with a hint of compound eyes in their depths. 

He was so damned tired… so tired… The knife’s hilt scraped at his back, he’d speared his belt near his spine, made that a feeble, adlibbed, sheath that’d need permanent remedy soon. But for now… He pulled the blade free, adjusted his grip, and considered the bound. They’d hold, he had a camp to break down first, and to that he snapped his fingers, and while it wasn’t a hum of ascent the bug managed a sizable hop that might have caused a spider webbing of flaws in the shell. Good, a few hours would be all he needed then. They’d run what errands they could, destroy what evidence he could, make a last gasp of scavenging edible plant, gather what fuel he could bind to him and easily carry for future fires…

Then the bug would feast and kill until his shell burst letting his true self free… or Iki forest ran out of prey. And if that happened, well what were a few missing pets from the towns fringes? Causalities of statistics, after all the wilds were a dangerous place, and if the simpletons in their walls didn’t know that he’d give them a reminder, free of charge.


End file.
